“A true one,” said the baronet, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket. “You went to London last night by the seven o'clock train to post this,” and he held out the anonymous letter.
The widow, now quite pale, and looking years older, sat up on the couch with a painful effort, which suggested old age.
“I don't understand,” she said, trying to speak calmly. “I was not in London, and I did not post any letter. If you came here to insult me—”
“There can be no insult in asking a few questions,” said Random, throwing aside his stiffness and speaking decisively. “I received this letter, which bears a London postmark, by the mid-day post. The handwriting is disguised, and there is neither address nor signature nor date. You manufactured your communication very cleverly, Mrs. Jasher, but you forgot that the Chinese perfume might betray you.”
“The perfume! the perfume!” Mrs. Jasher gasped and saw in a moment how the late conversation had led her to fall into a trap.
“The letter retains traces of the perfume you use,” went on the baronet relentlessly. “I have a remarkably keen sense of smell, and, as scent is a most powerful aid to memory, I speedily recollected that you used this especial perfume. You told me a few moments ago that no one else used it, and so you have proved the truth of my statement that this letter”—he tapped it—“is written by you.”
“It's a lie—a mistake,” stuttered Mrs. Jasher, now at bay and looking dangerous. Her society veneer was stripped off, and the adventuress pure and simple came to the surface.
Indignant at the way in which she had deceived everyone, and having much at stake, Random did not spare her.
“It is not a mistake,” he insisted; “neither is it a lie. When I became aware that you must have written the letter, I drove at once to Jessum to see if you had gone to London, as you had posted it there. I learned from the station master and from a porter that you went to town by the seven o'clock train and returned by the midnight.”
Mrs. Jasher leaped to her feet.