He had done everything he could think of, and knew not how to devise
anything further, and yet this secret, if there was one, would not come
forward and look him in the face. He had searched the house in the first
instance for letters and papers; there were some old letters, and old
papers also, but not one that did not seem to be as clear in the
innocence of its meaning as possible; there was even one that set at
rest doubt and fear which he had hitherto entertained. He had found no
closets in the wall, no locked chambers; he had met with no mysterious
silences, mysterious looks, mysterious words. Then he had gone to meet
the bereaved mother, that if she had anything to say in the way of
warning to him, or repentance for herself, he might lay himself out to
hear it; but no, he had found her generally not willing to talk, but all
she did say showed tender reverence for the dead Melcombes, and
passionate grief for her boy who had been taken, as she said, before he
was old enough even to estimate at its due value the prosperous and
happy career he had before him.
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