marking out of the run-over has been neatly ruled,
done so recently that the ink is not yet black--done with that ink in
the stand. It was blotted with this." She lifted a hand-blotter to show
me the print of a line of ink. There were other markings on the face of
the soft paper, and I took it eagerly. Barbara smiled.

"You will get little from that," she said. I had not even seen her give
it attention. "Scattered words--and parts of words, blotted frequently
as they were written. Perhaps, with care, we might learn something, but
we can turn more easily to the last pages of his diary and--"

"There are no last pages," I interrupted. "The 1920 book is missing."

"Gone--stolen?" she exclaimed. It brought a smile to my face. For the
first time in my experience of this pretty, little bunch of brains, she
had hazarded a guess.

"Gone," I admitted coolly--a bit sarcastically. "I've no reason to say
stolen."

"But--yes, you have--you have, Mr. Boyne! If it is gone, it was stolen.
Is it gone--are you sure it is gone?" Eagerly her eyes were searching
desk, cabinet, the shelf where the other diaries made their long row. I
satisfied her on that score.

"I have searched the study thoroughly; it is not in this room."

"Was here last night," Worth cut in. "I saw it on the desk."

"And was stolen last night," Barbara reaffirmed, quickly. "These books
are too big to be slipped into a pocket, so we can't believe it was left
upon Mr. Gilbert's person; and he wouldn't lend it--wouldn't willingly
let it go from his possession. So it was stolen; and the man who stole
it--killed him." She shuddered.

That was going too swift for me to follow, but I saw on Worth Gilbert's
face his acceptance of it. Either conviction of Barbara's infallibility,
or some knowledge locked up inside his own chest, made him certain the
diary had been stolen, and the thief was his father's murderer. In a
flash, I remembered his words, "putting every damn' word of our row into
it," and I shot straight at him,

"Did you take that book, Worth?"

He only shook his head and answered,

"You heard what Bobs said, Jerry."

If he took the book he killed his father; that was Barbara's inference,
Worth's acceptance. I threw back my shoulders to cast off the suspicion,
then reached across to place my fingers under the girl's hand and pull
from it the only record of that last written page, the blotter.

"Will you read me that?" I asked her. "Every word and part