“I was not aware I said anything. The thought that passed through my mind was that probably your father, if he had any painful secrets in his life, was so wise as to destroy all trace of them. Nay, don’t mistake me. I say _if_. Probably he had no secrets at all, or only innocent ones--but _if_----” “I don’t think he destroyed anything,” said Clare, almost sharply, as she led the way. Now that she had made up her mind to it, she did not wish to be balked of her mystery. It was very dreadful and painful, and a great shock; but still, if there was anything in it---- She went on first into the large, lofty, sombre room which was the Arden library. It was everything that a library ought to be. The books were but little used, it is true; but then the room was so noiseless, so cool, and grey, and secluded, that it seemed the very place for a student. To be sure the Ardens had never been great students, but they had all the books that ought to be in a gentleman’s library--an excellent collection of English literature, a fair show of classics, and many books in other living languages. These books were very seldom disturbed behind their wires; but the silence was supreme, and would have lent itself to the deepest study. Edgar had been daunted by the solemn dignity of the place. He had felt that his discussions with Perfitt, and all the business he had to transact, were out of place in this stately, solemn room; and, with his usual indifference to the traditions of the Ardens, had removed himself into a homely, bright, little place, full of impertinent windows and modern papered walls, where he had hung up a great many of his possessions, and where Perfitt could talk above his breath.