“Ah, my dear Passmore,” he said, “you must not ask me that question. I can only answer you in this way. If you wish to make the biggest sensation which has ever been created in the criminal world, to render yourself immortal, and your fame imperishable—find out! I may not help you, I doubt whether you will find any to help you. But if you want excitement, the excitement of a dangerous chase after a tremendous quarry, take your life in your hands, go in and win.”
Passmore’s withered little face lit up with a gleam of rare excitement.
“These are your enemies, sir,” he said. “They have attempted your life once, they may do it again. Assume the offensive yourself. Give me a hint.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“That I cannot do,” he said. “I have saved you from wasting your time on a false scent. I have given you something definite to work upon. Further than that I can do nothing.”
Passmore looked his disappointment, but he knew Mr. Sabin better than to argue the matter.
“You will not even produce that letter at the inquest?” he asked.
“Not even that,” Mr. Sabin answered.
Passmore rose to his feet.
“You must remember,” he said, “that supposing any one else stumbles upon the same trail as I have been pursuing, and suspicion is afterwards directed towards madame, your not producing that letter at the inquest will make it useless as evidence in her favour.”