“May I see it?” said the latter.
My companion produced the letter and handed it over. Throughout his bearing and behavior were completely collected and formal—passionless altogether in their studied unemotionalism.
The inspector went through the poor little scrawl attentively from first word to last. No doubt he was a kindly family man in private. Officially these pitiful warrants of heartbreaks were mere items in his day’s business.
When he had finished he raised his eyes, but not his head.
“Sweetheart?” he said.
“No,” answered Duke, “but an old friend.”
“Renny?” asked the inspector, pointing a pen at me.
“Yes.”
“She ran away?”
“Yes.”