This was another thing about which Tarleton had entertained no doubt since seeing the advertisement. But he received the suggestion with every sign of disbelief.
“Madame Bonnell is the last person to whom I should think Dr. Weathered would have trusted them,” he answered.
“She may have stolen them,” the girl persisted. “Perhaps he kept them at the Club and she has found them since his death.”
“He kept nothing whatever at the Club except the disguise he wore at the Club dances. I have had the premises searched carefully by the police, and they have questioned the staff. The letters are not there now, and there is no receptacle in which they could have been stored.”
Mrs. Neobard had been listening anxiously to this discussion. Now she spoke.
“Who else do you think can have them?”
“That is what I want you to tell me. And I think you can.”
The widow shivered again. Her daughter looked at her with a dawning comprehension that something was wrong.
“Mother, you must tell if you know.”
“Your husband kept these letters in a concealed cupboard of his dressing-room,” Tarleton told her. “Your house has been searched for a secret hiding-place and the cupboard has been found.” It was a bold shot, but the widow’s face showed that it had hit the mark. “That cupboard is empty now. The law presumes that you opened it, as you were entitled and bound to do, after his death, and that you took possession of its contents as executrix. I am here to ask you in the name of the law what you have done with them.”