“Proof! proof!”
“As plain as the nose on my face,” Mr. Asbury smiled. “I submitted the letter of warning, or whatever the nonsense may be termed, to one of the best experts in handwriting in all London, together with an assortment of the letters you gave me. My expert unhesitatingly declared that the writer of the letters signed Margaret Nugent was author of the anonymous one delivered here by hand. If you are not yet fully satisfied we can find the boy who brought the letter, though it may occupy several days. A reward must be offered, and advertisements put in the papers.”
“The result has shocked me severely,” Annesley said, after a long silence, “though I am greatly relieved to find that we have been chased by a mere shadow. I scarcely know how to break the disgraceful news to Lady Annesley, and must insist upon Miss Nugent making some sort of a confession to completely satisfy my wife, whose health her insane folly has viciously undermined. Mr. Asbury, I must turn the thing over in my mind for a little while before giving you my final instructions. I am bitterly annoyed and ashamed.”
“I can understand that, Sir Harold,” the detective said, rising.
“One minute, please,” Annesley said. “I am so well satisfied with your abilities, Mr. Asbury, that I shall esteem it a favor if you will undertake another little case in which I am interested.”
“I shall be pleased, Sir Harold, but if you will excuse me for an hour I shall be glad. I am expecting a cable from New York which must be answered promptly.”
Sir Harold glanced at his watch. It was exactly eight o’clock.
“If you like, Mr. Asbury, I will walk with you,” he said. “I have exactly an hour to spare, and I want to think how best to approach my wife with this shameful story.”
“I am at your service, Sir Harold,” was the respectful rejoinder.
The baronet rang for Stimson.