"His private papers," Gwen said, rising to lead the way, "are in his desk in the study."
"One moment, please," Maitland interrupted, calling her back, "I have something I have been trying to ask you for the last hour, but have repeatedly put off. I believe your father's death to have resulted from poisoning. You know the result of the post-mortem inquest. It is necessary to make an analysis of the poison, if there be any, and an absolutely thorough microscopic examination of the wound. I--I regret to pain you--but to do this properly it will be necessary to cut away the wounded portion. Have we your permission to do so?"
For a moment Gwen did not answer. She fell upon her knees before her father's body, and kissed the cold face passionately. For the first time since the tragedy she found relief in tears. When she arose a great change had come over her. She was very pale and seized a chair for support as she replied to Maitland's question between the convulsive sobs which she seemed powerless to check: "I--I have bidden him good-bye. We shall but obey his command in sparing no pains to reach the assassin. You--you have my permission to do anything--everything--that may be--necessary to that end. I--I know you will be as gentle--" But she could not finish her sentence. The futility of gentleness--the realisation that her father was forever past all need of tenderness, fell like a shroud about her soul. The awakening I had dreaded had come. Her hand fell from the chair, she staggered, and would have fallen to the floor had not Maitland caught her in his arms.