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52 “Don’t make it blacker than it is, Jack,” he said, at last “Personally, I don’t believe they’ve got the right man, but I’m sure of one thing—Miss Croydon had no hand in it.”

“Oh, I know she didn’t!” Drysdale burst out “It isn’t that. Don’t you see—it isn’t that! But what took her to that house? Why should she go there alone, at night, to meet a drunken brute? Answer me that, Jim Godfrey. I don’t care a hang for all the rest.”

Godfrey’s face hardened as he turned back to the fire. That was the very question to which he himself had been striving vainly all the evening to find an answer.

“Of course, Jack,” he said slowly, “I can’t tell you just what her whole purpose was. I don’t know the secret of the papers she hoped to get—it’s a family secret—and none of our business. But one thing’s certain—whatever it is, there’s no cause for you to worry about it.”

“And why not?”

“Why, don’t you see, Jack? If Mrs. Delroy knew her sister’s errand, it could have been no questionable one—no vulgar intrigue—nothing that would touch her in any degrading way—probably nothing that would touch her personally at all. One doesn’t confide things of that sort to one’s sister, nor ask advice about them. To be sure, she didn’t heed the advice; but at the very worst, all she’s been guilty of is an indiscretion. That, I think, any man would be glad to forgive.”

Drysdale drew a deep breath of relief.