“It’s not concealment not to talk of a thing. There was no call to talk of it so long as it had nothing to do with the murder.”
“But are you certain,” the words came hard and with a painful ring, “that it did have nothing to do with the murder?”
The question showed Trafford how far pain and numbing anguish had carried the man who, loyal even to the death of honour to the mother who bore him, on that very account was the deeper sufferer.
“Absolutely!” Trafford threw into the word an intense depth of conviction. “On that point you may exclude every doubt.”
Matthewson gave him a look of intense relief. He was reasonably certain as to Cranston; but if there was a chain of circumstances, as there well might be, between this story and the recent murder, what was to save them?
“I owe you more than I can say,” he went on. “I won’t waste my gratitude in words. The only thing I can do now, that I see, is to answer your question of a half-hour ago. You’re entitled to that.”
He wrote some names on a slip of paper and passed it over to Trafford. He watched him as he read, to detect, if possible, any movement of surprise, for this question of the murder, from a matter of comparative indifference, save as it touched the possession of certain papers, was growing into a vital thing, that seemed to meet him at every turn, filling him with alarm for the moment when it should uncover in all its hideous nakedness. But there was nothing to indicate that he had told anything which the other did not know already, until Trafford himself spoke. Then, even, the tone was most commonplace:
“You have saved me the time and trouble it would have taken to complete the list.” He evidently had no question of his ability to do so. “I hope you’ll add to the obligation by answering one or two questions. Did you meet these men separately or together?”
“I met the first two separately and the other alone.”
“And discussed with the two the papers which were in Wing’s possession.” While pursuing the matter in apparently the most commonplace way, Trafford did not fail to note the quick air of sudden interest on Matthewson’s part which followed this reference to the mysterious papers. It was not a look that betokened fear, but rather eagerness, if the detective could read aright. He went on: