He glanced hurriedly through its contents, his face ashen, his lips blue, then read aloud as follows:
"My Dear Father:
"I am going to London to see Mr. Morgan. They suspect him of the murder. I overheard the police talking about it this morning. I do not know what to do. I cannot let an innocent person suffer. It may be better for me to remain away altogether. If I must speak I can only ask for forgiveness.
"Muriel."
If the earth had opened up and engulfed me, I could not have been more astounded than I was when Major Temple finished reading this strange letter. What on earth had she gone to London to see me for? The poor girl, I felt sure, was laboring under some terrible misapprehension. I, for one, had no fear of anything she could say. I glanced at her father. He seemed shrunken and old, his head bowed upon his breast. Could he—? I refused to think. Yet he either feared for himself, or—God help me!—for her. No other emotion, no consideration for anyone else, could have so terribly affected him. The note plainly enough meant that Miss Temple knew who had murdered Mr. Ashton, and she knew that it was not I. But would the police so regard it? I looked at the cold, accusing faces of the two Scotland Yard men and groaned inwardly. In a moment the Inspector spoke. "Have you a telephone in the house, Major Temple?" he asked.
"Yes," answered the Major, rousing himself from his lethargy. "In the hall, near the foot of the staircase."
The Inspector nodded to McQuade, who arose without a word and left the room. I knew that Muriel had not yet had time to reach London, that, when she did so, it would be to step into the arms of an officer. The net was fast closing about someone, but about whom I could not yet see. I was lost in a maze of conflicting thoughts.
"Mr. Morgan, have you anything to say in explanation of this letter?" I heard Major Temple asking me. His voice came to me as from afar off. I looked up and shook off my growing fears.
"Miss Temple writes as though she believed you would understand what she means," I replied. "I certainly do not."
"I!" cried the Major. "It's absolute nonsense to me. Why should she want to see you, unless you understood something between you? What does she know, that she should speak, and for what does she seek for forgiveness?" He threw up his hands in absolute dismay. If this were acting, I thought, it could not be better done by the most renowned actor on the boards.
"You remember, Major Temple, that your daughter refused to tell what it was she saw, or what happened, that caused her to return to the house so suddenly that morning. I advised her to speak—she refused. Had she come to me to-night, I should have given her the same advice as before. Nothing that she can say would harm me."