Giles turned the key in the wards, and pushed open the door. They went into the study, a square room with a Turkey carpet, and solid furniture. Randall strolled to the window, and opened it, and remained there, his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders propped against the wall. He evinced no interest in the discoveries made by Hannasyde, which were not, indeed, of an interesting nature. There were some bills, many receipts, several typewritten letters referring to Guy Matthews' future in Brazil, and one brief note from Henry Lupton, dated 13th May. Giles, finding it, handed it to Hannasyde without comment.
It seemed to have been written in haste, and began abruptly: “Further to our conversation of even date, I must see you again before doing anything. I trust you have by this time thought better of it, and warn you you will have cause to regret it if you drive me to take desperate action.”
Hannasyde read this through, and was about to fold it up when Randall moved away from the window, and came forward. “Ah, do you mind?” he murmured, and took the letter out of his hand.
“It is of no particular moment,” Hannasyde said, a little shortly.
“I expect that was why you were interested,” said Randall in his most dulcet voice. He read the letter, and gave it back. “Dramatic little man,” he said.
“Do you know to what this letter refers, Mr Matthews?”
“Do you?” smiled Randall.
“Yes, Mr Matthews, I think I do.”
“Then why ask me?” inquired Randall. He glanced down at the drawer Giles had pulled out. “How very disappointing! I'm afraid my uncle must have destroyed his more lurid correspondence.”
The drawer held an untidy collection of oddments. Hannasyde turned over a packet of labels, disclosing a pair of horn-rimmed sun-glasses underneath, a scattering of paper-clips, and a tube of seccotine. For the rest there was a quantity of stamp-paper, some sealing wax, a pen-knife, a bottle of red ink, and a roll of adhesive tape. These articles the Superintendent turned out on to the desk, but there was nothing hidden under them.