Hanaud looked up into her face quickly.
"Oho!" he said softly. "Letters! Yes! And what kind of letters, if you please?"
Jim Frobisher was for throwing up his hands in despair. What in the world had happened to Hanaud? One moment he forgot altogether the business upon which he was engaged in his enjoyment of Simon Harlowe's collection. The next he was off on his wild-goose chase after anonymous letters. Jim had not a doubt that he was thinking of them now. One had only to say "letters," and he was side-tracked at once, apparently ready to accuse any one of their authorship.
"They were quite private letters," Betty replied, whilst the colour slowly stained her cheeks. "They will not help you."
"So I see," Hanaud returned, with just a touch of a snarl in his voice as he shook the shovel and flung the ashes back into the grate. "But I am asking you, Mademoiselle, what kind of letters these were."
Betty did not answer. She looked sullenly down at the floor, and then from the floor to the windows; and Jim saw with a stab of pain that her eyes were glistening with tears.
"I think, Monsieur Hanaud, that we have come to a point when Mademoiselle and I should consult together," he interposed.
"Mademoiselle would certainly be within her rights," said Monsieur Bex.
But Mademoiselle waived her rights with a little petulant movement of her shoulders.
"Very well."