With a sudden cry Woodman rose from his chair and sprang towards the cupboard. He tore the bag open and felt wildly in it. Then he flung the bag away.
“No,” said Joan, “the button is not there, Mr. Woodman—now. It is safe somewhere else.”
“And I think, Mr. Woodman, what you have just done rather disposes of the pose of injured innocence. Don’t you?” asked Ellery.
Woodman kicked the bag savagely into a corner and sank into his chair. His face had gone dead white. Shakily he poured out and drank a glass of water.
“Your hopes of removing my stepfather by due process of law,” Joan continued, “were unfortunately frustrated. You were, therefore, in the position of having committed two murders for nothing, unless you could find some fresh means of profiting by them. You found such means. As soon as you heard of my stepfather’s release you made your plans. Soon after his release you met him, and somehow or other, persuaded him to make a will in your favour. I do not know how you did it; but I presume there was some agreement between you to share the proceeds of your deal. You then attempted, on the strength of your joint expectations under Sir Vernon’s will, to raise a large loan from one who was a friend of yours—Sir John Bunnery. You were in serious financial trouble, and only a considerable immediate supply of money could save you from bankruptcy and disgrace. That, I think, is correct.”
Joan paused, but this time Woodman had nothing to say. His face had gone grayer still. He stared at Joan, and his hand strayed towards one of the drawers of the table before him. But he remained silent.
This time, however, Joan pressed him for an answer.
“Do you admit now that what I have said is true?” she asked. And, as he still said nothing, “We can prove it all, you know,” Ellery added.
Woodman pulled himself together with an effort. “You have told the police all this?” he asked.
“Not a word as yet,” said Joan. “We decided to see you first.”