“It's his paper—the paper he always used.” Mrs. Erskine seemed quite dazed. She gave Christine the impression of a woman speaking in a nightmare.
“It may be, but it's not his letter. You see, I happen to be in a position to swear to that one, and to prove it in time. Lots of other people knew of his accident. Now, Mrs. Erskine, who is there who could have done so wicked, so cruel a thing?”
Mrs. Erskine suddenly got up, as though she found the room stifling. She looked ghastly, and to Christine she looked frightened as well.
“I must be alone—this shock—this blow—I want time”—she held out a cold, shaking hand—“will you come back—it's now five. Will you come back at seven without fail? Without fail? I—promise me you won't speak of this to anyone in the meanwhile. I know a French detective, not so far from here, before whom I want to lay the case. He is the only man who can solve this riddle. But I'll go into that later when you come back. Promise that you won't speak of it to anyone in the meanwhile. I have a feeling that absolute secrecy is essential if this mystery is to be unravelled,—and unravelled it must be—and quickly!”
Christine would have taken the widow's hand, but Mrs. Erskine did not see her gesture. There was something fierce in her eyes. Action, not sentiment, was evidently rising rapidly in her heart to the exclusion of any softer feeling. Christine mentally apologised to her for ever having thought her dull and cold.
“But what about the Inspector?” she asked gently.
“You mean yon English policeman? That dolt has done nothing but muddle and muddle along. And where is he now? Away on his holidays, I shouldna be surprised.”
Christine made a little deprecatory moue.
“Still, the case is in his hands,” she ventured, and remembering how he had come to the help of them all at Lille, she repeated more firmly. “I do think you owe it to him to let him know about this at once.”
“And where is he to be found?” Mrs. Erskine asked fiercely; “tell me that?”