Captain Charles was quite ready.
“I must ask you to consider yourself my prisoner, Madame. The charge is one of conspiring with Arthur Stillman to obtain money from various persons by threats. Whatever you may say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”
She didn’t wait for the production of the official note-book. Her hands were at the bosom of her dress.
“That charge is false and you know it. It is you who are using threats to obtain these letters, to which you have no claim. You are breaking the law, not I.”
She was right, that was the amazing part of it, entirely right. But she handed over the letters. And she contrived to look rather anxious.
“Let me tell you that I only consented to receive those letters from Mrs. Weathered because I saw she was a dangerous woman and I wanted to prevent her from doing mischief. I meant to return them to the writers the moment I knew who they were. In my position I couldn’t afford to do otherwise. I had to think of the reputation of the Club.”
Against this there was nothing to be said. It was the second line of defence, of course. Tarleton was not the man to waste time in assailing it.
“Mrs. Weathered tells me she gave you something else beside those letters.”
Madame Bonnell needed no preparation to meet this blow, which she had clearly been expecting. She heaved a sigh, apparently one of relief.
“Ah, I am glad she has confessed that! It has been a burden on my mind. I ought to have denounced her, I suppose, but I saw she was out of her mind, and I was sorry for her. I thought it would be enough if I took the poison from her and kept it in a safe place.”