"Well, sir," the landlady stammered, "there were some letters—and Miss Strode, after you was gone, I think she paid some bills for you. At least, so I understood her to say. But two gentlemen have been here since you arrived this evening——"
She stopped, and again picked up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.
Rupert swung round. He waited for her to continue.
"Of course, I shouldn't have admitted them, sir—but, I couldn't help myself."
"What do you mean?"
Mrs. Jones hesitated. She was washing her hands in her apron now, and she sniffed suspiciously once or twice as if tears threatened.
"Speak out—speak plainly, for goodness' sake!" Rupert cried fiercely. "What did these men come for? Who were they?"
"Scotland Yard, sir. In order to search the rooms." She raised her apron to her eyes and commenced to sob. "Such a thing ain't never happened to me before, sir, never since my poor husband died and I was forced to take in lodgers. I told them what I thought of them, but it weren't no good, sir. They had a warrant, or whatever it's called.... And they took your letters, sir. What right had they to them, I'd like to know."
"It's all right, Mrs. Jones," Rupert said quietly. "It's a mistake."
"I know that, sir. But it ain't pleasant to have a thing like that happen in one's own house. Police officers they were, sir.... I told them you was a perfectly respectable gentleman.... You'd paid your bills, as they could see——"