"Blue-prints?" He seemed to think it over. "Why--there may be some.
Have you looked in the old secretary in the library? My uncle used
to keep all sorts of papers there," he said with apparent helpfulness.
"Why, don't you remember--you locked it when we took the house."
"So I did." Fleming took out his key ring, selected a key. "Suppose
you go and look," he said. "Don't you think I'd better stay here?"
"Oh, yes--" said Dale, blinded to everything else by the rising hope
in her heart. "Oh, I can hardly thank you enough!" and before he
could even reply, she had taken the key and was hurrying toward the
hall door.
He watched her leave the room, a bleak smile on his face. As soon
as she had closed the door behind her, his languor dropped from him.
He became a hound--a ferret--questing for its prey. He ran lightly
over to the bookcase by the hall door--a moment's inspection--he
shook his head. Perhaps the other bookcase near the French windows
--no--it wasn't there. Ah, the bookcase over the fireplace! He
remembered now! He made for it, hastily swept the books from the
top shelf, reached groping fingers into the space behind the second
row of books. There! A dusty roll of three blue-prints! He
unrolled them hurriedly and tried to make out the white tracings by
the light of the fire--no--better take them over to the candle on
the table.
He peered at them hungrily in the little spot of light thrown by
the candle. The first one--no--nor the second--but the third
--the bottom one--good heavens! He took in the significance of
the blurred white lines with greedy eyes, his lips opening in a
silent exclamation of triumph.
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