“And they wouldn’t believe you, eh?”
“They thought I was bluffing, of course.”
“But how on earth—did they say anything about the contents of the letter?” This question came from Dorothy.
“No. Simply that they wanted it—and they knew I must have it. What I can’t understand is how they could be so sure that a letter exists—even if I’d known about it, I wouldn’t have given it to them—but it’s all as clear as mud to me.”
“Has Mr. Lewis ever spoken to you about it?”
“Never.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that your Father might have left a letter for you—any idea that he might have had an important message to convey to you in that way?”
“Not the slightest. You see, I—”
“Look here,” broke in Terry. “Do you think it possible that old Lewis knew that your Father wrote you that letter—and believes that it’s in this house? He might have hired those thugs to get it from you, then when he found out they failed, he hopped over here himself and made that offer to buy your place, in order to get hold of it? There may be something valuable contained in it, and he wants to get it at any cost.”
“Too crude,” declared Dorothy with a shake of her head. “Perhaps he does want to buy it—but I doubt if he has anything to do with those holdup fellows. Mr. Lewis may be close but I’m sure he’s a clever man. The very fact that he came here so soon after the fracas clears his skirts of trying to hold up Stoker. As I say, he may want to get hold of the letter himself, but I’m dead sure he’s not the nigger in this particular woodpile.”