“They were very old friends, were they not?”
“Were they nothing more?” Donald leaned over the desk and fixed his eyes keenly upon those of the man opposite him. He felt the blood surging to his temples. “Why don’t you answer me, Mr. Brennan?” he went on, as the lawyer dropped his eyes. “Were they nothing more?”
His searching questions began to annoy the lawyer. “Why do you ask me such a question, Mr. Rogers?” he snapped.
“Only to find out how much you know. Mrs. Rogers has confessed everything to me. You can do her no harm by telling me the truth, and you will make it much easier for us to go ahead. Do you know?”
“Yes,” Brennan answered at length, in a low voice.
“How?”
“All the letters your wife wrote to West came to me along with his other papers.”
Donald recoiled in bitterness of spirit. However certain he had been of Edith’s guilt, he still hoped that Mr. Brennan, in some way, might disclose mitigating circumstances, facts of which he himself was not cognizant, whereby her affair with West might present an appearance less damning.
“My God!” he muttered. “And you read them?”