There was utter silence for a moment or two.
"Your letters," she at last answered, scarcely above a whisper.
"What are they doing there?" he asked.
"I wanted them," was all she said.
"Why should you want my letters?" was his next question.
She did not answer it. The man in the dressing-gown turned and pointed to the inert figure of Hobbs.
"What about him? How did he get here?"
"He must have followed me in from the street when the door was unlocked. Or he may have come in before I did, and kept in hiding somewhere."
"Who left the door unlocked?"
"Simmonds."