Then she was out of the room. Her husband, struggling to pull his wits together, pressed his hands flat on the table. His mildness, his weary look, showed he could scarcely do it.
"Can — you help me?" Puckston asked.
"If you help me."
"How? I'll try. Yes; I'll do it"
"Son, I warn you: the first bit is goin’ to hurt It’ll keep you thinking about your daughter." "Go ahead."
From his inside breast pocket H.M. took out three postcards. One, postmarked July 5th, read, Re Sir George Fleet: examine the skeleton in the clock. The second, July 6th: Re Sir George Fleet: what was the pink flash on the roof? The third, July 7th: Re Sir George Fleet: evidence of murder is still there. Clearing a space on the supper-table, pushing away cutlery and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce, he put down the exhibits.
"Son," he said quietly, "you sent these postcards."
The other's mouth quivered like a hurt child's.
To be more exact," added H.M., "you dictated the substance and Enid put it down in correct grammar and spelling, with schoolgirl flourishes." "'Ow did you know that?" asked Puckston. "Never mind. It's not important. What I…" "'Ow did you know that?" repeated Puckston, with the insistence of the drunken or the damned. The tears had started. again.
"Oh, son! From your antiques here I thought you might subscribe to Willaby's catalogue. I asked Lady Br — I asked somebody in this district if you did, and she said yes. She also said she got her last catalogue on July 5th, which is the postmark on that first anonymous card.