Richard inclined his head gravely, but did not speak.

“Well,” said Hedrick with a slight emphasis, “I guess I’ll go out in the yard a while.”  And with shining eyes he left the room.

In the hall, out of range from the library door, he executed a triumphant but noiseless caper, and doubled with mirth, clapping his hand over his mouth to stifle the effervescings of his joy.  He had recognized the ledger in the same wrapping in which he had left it in Mrs. Lindley’s vestibule.  His moment had come:  the climax of his enormous joke, the repayment in some small measure for the anguish he had so long endured.  He crept silently back toward the door, flattened his back against the wall, and listened.

“Richard,” he heard Laura say, a vague alarm in her voice, “what is it?  What is the matter?”

Then Lindley:  “I did not know what to do about it.  I couldn’t think of any sensible thing.  I suppose what I am doing is the stupidest of all the things I thought of, but at least it’s honest—­so I’ve brought it back to you myself.  Take it, please.”

There was a crackling of the stiff wrapping paper, a little pause, then a strange sound from Laura.  It was not vocal and no more than just audible:  it was a prolonged scream in a whisper.

Hedrick ventured an eye at the crack, between the partly open door and its casing.  Lindley stood with his back to him, but the boy had a clear view of Laura.  She was leaning against the wall, facing Richard, the book clutched in both arms against her bosom, the wrapping paper on the floor at her feet.

“I thought of sending it back and pretending to think it had been left at my mother’s house by mistake,” said Richard sadly, “and of trying to make it seem that I hadn’t read any of it.  I thought of a dozen ways to pretend I believed you hadn’t really meant me to read it——­”

Making a crucial effort, she managed to speak.

“You—­think I—­did mean——­”

“Well,” he answered, with a helpless shrug, “you sent it!  But it’s what’s in it that really matters, isn’t it?  I could have pretended anything in a note, I suppose, if I had written instead of coming.  But I found that what I most dreaded was meeting you again, and as we’ve got to meet, of course, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to blunder through a talk with you, somehow or another, and get that part of it over.  I thought the longer I put off facing you, the worse it would be for both of us—­and—­and the more embarrassing.  I’m no good at pretending, anyhow; and the thing has happened.  What use is there in not being honest?  Well?”

She did not try again to speak.  Her state was lamentable:  it was all in her eyes.

Richard hung his head wretchedly, turning partly away from her.  “There’s only one way—­to look at it,” he said hesitatingly, and stammering.  “That is—­there’s only one thing to do:  to forget that it’s happened.  I’m—­I—­oh, well, I care for Cora altogether.  She’s got never to know about this.  She hasn’t any idea or—­suspicion of it, has she?”