“You would tell me,” he said, “that you were in the habit of going to Trasmere’s house every night, to leave your jewels with him, though that wasn’t the object of your visit. You went there,” he said slowly and not looking at her, “to act as his secretary. All the letters that were sent away by Jesse Trasmere were typewritten by you on a portable machine, the make of the machine is a Cortona, its number is 29754, it has one key-cap missing, and the letter ‘r’ is a little out of alignment.”
He enjoyed her consternation for a second and then went on:
“Perhaps you weren’t going to tell me that you and Yeh Ling, the proprietor of the Golden Roof, paid a visit to Mayfield the night I nearly caught you? No, I see that you weren’t. So we’ll restrict the confession to your peculiar occupation.”
Tab was speechless.
Ursula Ardfern the old man’s secretary! One of the most successful actresses in London acting as amanuensis to that crabbed misanthrope; it was unbelievable. Yet a glance at the girl’s face told him that Carver had only spoken the truth.
“How do you know?” she gasped.
Carver smiled again.
“We have very clever people in the police,” he said drily. “You would never imagine it to read the newspapers. Clever old sixty-nine inch brains, eh, Tab?”
“I never said that you had a sixty-nine inch brain,” avowed Tab stoutly.
“But—” interrupted the girl, and her voice was agitated, “do you know—do you know anything else? Why we went that night?”