Then came the thought of the box. He reached out his hand and, groping, it fell upon it. He had barely strength enough yet to draw it to him, but at last succeeded, though not without much pain. He lifted it feebly and the lid fell back, showing the breakage where it had been wrenched from its hinges. With a paroxysm of strength born of terror, he sat upright and looked into the box. It was empty; not even a shred of paper remaining. For one instant he gazed in uncomprehending stupidity, and then, as the truth flashed on him, he fell again to the earth, and lost in temporary unconsciousness alike the sense of pain and the power to follow his interrupted quest. Almost at the very moment when Trafford discovered the loss of the papers, Henry Matthewson slipped through the grounds of the Hunter home, coming from the direction of the river, and entered by a side door. He went directly to the library, where his brother and the two Hunters had been in uneasy conference for some hours. As he entered, the three men started to their feet, first in surprise at his presence, and then in greater surprise at his appearance. His face was white and set, like the face of a man who has passed through some terrible struggle and has conquered or been conquered. One, looking at the inscrutable face, could not have decided which. “You!” exclaimed Charles Matthewson. “I have been trying to reach you all night.” “How could you reach here at this hour?” said Frank Hunter. “There’s no train.” Charles Hunter said nothing, but his quick understanding of men, and, perhaps, a quality in him that would have dared all that man could dare in a desperate case, told him more than either of his companions saw. For a moment he hesitated and then, seeing no denial in the face of the newcomer, said: “You have found the papers.” The others started and looked at the two men whom, instinctively, they knew to be stronger than themselves. “Yes,” said Henry Matthewson. “Where are they?” asked Charles Matthewson and Frank Hunter, in a breath. The other did not answer. Then Charles repeated the question: “Where are they?” “Where would they be now, if they had come into your hands a half-hour ago?” demanded Matthewson. “Destroyed!” said Charles Hunter unhesitatingly. “They are where they will never menace us or ours again,” said Henry Matthewson, “unless the river gives them up. I dropped them from the bridge into the pool below the Falls a half-hour ago.” “But where did you find them?” was Frank Hunter’s question. Charles Hunter looked again at the other’s face, and said: “How serious is the matter?” “The man is merely stunned,” said Henry. “I think some one should find him, under the poplars at the foot of the hill----” “Henry! My God!” exclaimed Charles Matthewson, stepping hastily forward. “You haven’t----”