As a light on his character the four were damning in their clearness, and in so far they gave the Chief Inspector a very good idea of the vicious circle in which Robert Erskine must have lived; but they mentioned no names and no facts. Not even an address was given. The mother was directed to send the sums asked for, and very big sums they totalled all together, to the Toronto main postoffice. There was never a date or heading, but the Toronto post-mark on the envelopes supplied some clue. Of coming to Europe there was no word. It looked much as though young Robert's journey might easily have been a flight from unpleasant consequences, for Pointer knew, none better, where such paths as these could lead. He handed back the letters without a word, except of thanks. Mrs. Erskine covered her face with her hands and said nothing for a moment.
“You'll not—they don't do my poor lad justice—I shan't be called on to show them again?”
“No, no, madame!” Pointer was thankful that he need not turn the knife in a mother's wound. “No, there will be no necessity for any mention of them. But his other letters, now——?”
“I didn't keep them,” she spoke in a low, pained voice, “you see, I never dreamt that they might be all that I should ever have— I always thought he would let me make my home with him some day—living alone is hard when your son is so far away—but that was not to be.”
“You have no other letters from him, then?”
“None. I destroyed them each year. I make a practice of never keeping letters long. My health is none too certain.”
“Did he ever refer to a John Carter in them?”
“You mean the John Carter to whom he left his money? Mr. Russell asked me about him, too. No, I never knew him mention any names or places to me.”
“You know nothing of a man called Beale?”
“Nothing whatever.”