“You feel this particular instance rather too acutely, I fear, Daventry,” said Anthony gaily, “it touches you on a tender spot.” Peter’s sole reply was inarticulate—a grunt. Anthony tried a different tack. “I had hoped,” he chided gently, “that a rather effective piece of work on my part might have received some measure of congratulation.”
Peter swung round—instant with shamefaced apology. “I say, I’m frightfully sorry, Bathurst. It was too bad of me altogether. Really I do congratulate you on a topping shot—forgive my discourtesy—it was inexcusable on my part.”
Anthony grinned—pleased nevertheless at the unmistakable sincerity of the compliment. “Thank you—it wasn’t too bad a shot—although I candidly admit the actual result has surprised me.” He tapped the letter with his forefinger. “At the same time we must realize that this is most important. It explains a good deal that was previously somewhat puzzling. We know now for certain why Miss Lennox was in here with her guardian after the Colonel’s departure.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Why—exactly?”
“To show him this letter! Don’t be alarmed—the lady does not eye Llewellyn’s suit with any favor. She has threatened him doubtless that if he continued to pester her with his attentions, she would report the whole affair to Stewart. Somewhere about five minutes past ten on the fatal night—she did so.”
“What happened after that?” queried Peter, breathlessly.
“That, of course, I can’t answer,” replied Anthony. “I can only enter and subsequently explore the realm of conjecture. I assume that Stewart found this to be yet another trouble to add to his worries. He was probably incensed at what he would naturally term his secretary’s effrontery. I think his interview with his ward was short—he would deal with Mr. Llewellyn in the morning. I imagine also that Miss Lennox left by the French doors and made her way into the garden.”
“Why?” demanded Peter quickly.
“That was when I suggest she dropped her handkerchief.”
“Of course—I should have remembered.”