“And he showed you the letter? You have read it?” The tones were quiet, but Caruth could see the suspense lurking in her eyes.
“Yes, he showed it to me. That is, he showed me a copy of it—with certain words cut out. I have brought it with me. But before I show it to you, I must—forgive me—I must be convinced of your rights in the matter.”
“My rights!”
“Yes, your rights. It seems outrageous for me to question you; but—I must know.”
“Know what?” A tang of metal grated in the woman’s words.
“Know all there is to know! I have the right to ask! You came to my rooms seeking a letter. You warned Wilkins that the possession of the letter might be fatal to him. He did not heed you, and he was murdered within the hour, apparently to get the letter you wanted so much. To-day I learn that this letter contains information, not about a political conspiracy as I had supposed, but about money—money! I was ready to shield you—even when I thought you or your accomplices had been guilty of murder—as long as your acts were political. But to kill for money—to waylay a man and murder him for gold—that goes beyond me!”
“And you believe I did that?”
Caruth flushed and paled again. “No!” he stammered. “Not you. But your friends——”
“My friends are no more guilty than myself. Two of them were awaiting me, and I thought at first that they had killed your man. But they did not. I give you my word that they did not. Neither of them touched him! He was killed by some one else.”
“By whom? By whom?”