possible for the will, and it cannot
be found. He says Uncle Joseph must have destroyed it, and that it is
practically settled that Uncle Philip is the legal heir. Of course, Mr.
Philip Crawford isn't my uncle, but I have always called him that, and
Phil and I have been just like cousins."

"What else did Mr. Hall say?" I asked, for I divined that the difficult
part of her recital was yet to come.

"He said," she went on, with a rising color, "that he wished me to break
our engagement."

I will do myself the justice to say that although my first
uncontrollable thought was one of pure joy at this revelation, yet it
was instantly followed by sympathy and consideration for her.

"Why?" I asked in a voice that I tried to keep from being hard.

"He says," she continued, with a note of weariness in her voice, "that
he is not a rich man, and cannot give me the comforts and luxuries to
which I have been accustomed, and that therefore it is only right for
him to release me."

"Of course you didn't accept his generous sacrifice," I said; and my own
hopes ran riot as I listened for her answer.

"I told him I was willing to share poverty with him," she said, with a
quiet dignity, as if telling an impersonal tale, "but he insisted that
the engagement should be broken."

"And is it?" I asked eagerly, almost breathlessly.

She gave me that look which always rebuked me--always put me back in my
place--but which, it seemed to me, was a little less severe than ever
before. "It's left undecided for a day or two," she said. Then she added
hurriedly,

"I must see if he needs me. Do you suppose this story of Mrs.
Cunningham's will in any way--well, affect him?"

"It may," I replied truthfully. "At any rate, he must be made to tell
where he was and what he was doing Tuesday night. You have no idea, have
you?"

Florence hesitated a moment, looked at me in a way I could not fathom,
and then, but only after a little choking sound in her throat, she said,

"No, I have no idea."

It was impossible to believe her. No one would show such emotion, such
difficulty of speech, if telling a simple truth. Yet when I looked in
her troubled eyes, and read there anxiety, uncertainty, and misery, I
only loved her more than ever. Truly it was time for me to give up this
case. Whatever turn it took, I was no fit person to handle clues or
evidence which filled me with deadly fear lest they turn against the one
I loved.

And yet that one, alre