"Mrs. Miles," he began abruptly, and the tear-streaked face turned toward him. "You say you thought this letter to Mrs. Selim had been written by your husband?"
"Yes!" She gasped. "I'm jealous-natured. I admit it, and when I saw one of our own—I mean, one of Tracey's business envelopes—"
"You made up your mind to steal it and read it?"
"Yes, I did! A wife has a right to know what her husband's doing, if it's anything—like that—" Her haggard black eyes again implored her husband for forgiveness, before she went on: "I did slip into Nita's room and go into her closet to see if she had left the letter in her coat pocket. I closed the door on myself, thinking I could find the light cord, but it was caught in one of the dresses or something, and it took me a long time to find it in the dark of the closet, but I did find it at last, and was just reading the note—"
"You read it, even after you saw that the handwriting on the envelope wasn't your husband's?" Dundee queried in assumed amazement.
Flora's thin body sagged. "I—I thought maybe Tracey had disguised his Handwriting.... So I read it, and saw it was from Dexter—"
"Mr. Miles, do you know how some of your business stationery got into Sprague's hands?"
"He's had plenty of opportunity to filch stationery or almost anything he wants, hanging around my offices, as he does—an idler—"
But Dundee was in a hurry. He wheeled from the garrulity of the husband to the tense terror of the wife.
"Mrs. Miles, I want you to tell me exactly what you know, unless you prefer to consult a lawyer first—"