"Certainly," she agreed, and her face brightened in such evident relief that he turned to her suddenly and said almost regretfully, as a generous adversary might speak to one whom he hopelessly outclasses: "Madam, I hear you are fond of gambling. You should study the game of poker, which teaches us to hide our feelings. Now then," he walked back quickly to the desk, "I want you to open this secret drawer."
He spoke with a sudden sternness that quite disconcerted poor Pussy. She stood before him frozen with fear, unable to lie any more, unable even to speak. A big tear of weakness and humiliation gathered and rolled down her cheek, and then, still silent, she took a hairpin from her hair, inserted one leg of it into a tiny hole quite lost in the ornamental work at the back of the desk, pushed against a hidden spring, and presto! a small secret drawer shot forward. In this drawer lay a packet of letters tied with a ribbon.
"Are these his letters?" he asked.
In utter misery she nodded but did not speak.
"Thanks," he said. "May I take them?"
She put forward her hands helplessly.
"I'm sorry, but, as I said before, a murder isn't a pleasant thing." And he took the packet from the drawer.
Then, seeing herself beaten at every point, Pussy Wilmott gave way entirely and wept angrily, bitterly, her face buried in the sofa pillows.
"I'm sorry," repeated M. Paul, and for the first time in the interview he felt himself at a disadvantage.
"Why didn't I burn them, why didn't I burn them?" she mourned.