“If I had I should be only too happy to assist the course of justice by imparting it to you.”
There was a dryness in the tone of this reply which warned Barrant that he had made a blunder in allowing his irritation to get the better of him. But his private opinion was that the letter was the outcome of some secret of the dead man’s which he had imparted to his lawyer. He changed his mood with supple swiftness, in order to extract the information.
“This letter suggests certain things,” he said, “some secret, perhaps, in Robert Turold’s life, of which you may have some inkling. If you will give me some hint as to what it was, it might be very helpful.”
“Unfortunately, I am as much in the dark as yourself,” returned Mr. Brimsdown, rubbing his brow thoughtfully. “I cannot make the faintest guess at the reason which called forth this letter. I know next to nothing of my late client’s private life. He was a man of the utmost reticence in personal matters. My relations with him were not of that nature.”
This reply was delivered with a sincerity which it was impossible to doubt. In palpable disappointment Barrant turned to a renewed scrutiny of the letter, which he held open in his hand.
“It is very strange,” he muttered.
“Not the least strange part of it is that I cannot ascertain who posted it,” said Mr. Brimsdown, glancing earnestly at the letter. “I asked Thalassa, but he says he knows nothing about it.”
“Thalassa is probably lying to you as he has lied to me. One lie more or less would not weigh on his conscience.”
“Why should he tell a lie over such a small thing as the posting of a letter?”
Barrant did not reply. He was apparently absorbed in examining the postmarks on the envelope. “Indistinguishable, of course,” he muttered, returning the letter to the envelope. “Had Robert Turold any enemies?” he asked.