“I had no right to conceal so important a fact,” she said.
Trafford bit his lip over this turn of his own argument, but made no retort. He recognised in this second detective a graver impediment than the cunning of the criminal—if, indeed, it was not the cunning of the criminal that had interjected the second detective into the affair. Working independently, it was scarcely possible that they could do otherwise than thwart each other. He had the feeling that the case was his and that no other had a professional right to throw himself into it. If he had been on the verge of success, he would have withdrawn from the case. As it was, the same professional pride that resented intrusion, forbade his taking such a course.
For the twentieth time he asked:
“He certainly did a large amount of work at home and must have had papers connected with the work here?”
“Why, certainly,” she said. “He always had a lot of professional papers here.”
Trafford looked at her as if doubting whether he should ask the question that hung on his lips. But he must have facts, and here if anywhere was the information he needed. Could he trust the woman? Finally he came and stood over her chair, as if he was afraid of the walls even, and asked:
“Was this always his habit?”
“No,” she answered; “not while the judge was living, and never indeed until about two years ago. Yes, it began about two years ago.”
“It was not a habit learned from the judge, then?”
“Oh, no! Of course, he brought papers home at times, and so did Theodore; but he never kept them at home until within the last two years.”