“Of course he did. I thought he'd be rather pleased at getting rid of his responsibilities as a matter of fact, because he's tried often enough to marry me off. So I wrote and told him about it, because though you say I'm unreasonable I quite realise I can't get married, or anything, without his consent till I'm twenty-five. And instead of sending me his blessing, he wrote the filthiest letter, and said he wouldn't hear of it.”
“Why?”
“No reason at all. Snobbery.”
“Now, look here, Tony!” Giles said. “I know Arnold, and I know you. I don't say he was the type of fellow I cultivate, but he wasn't as bad as you and Kenneth thought him. Yes, I know you two had a rotten time with him but it's always been my firm conviction that you brought a lot of it on yourselves. So don't tell me that he refused to give his consent to your marriage without letting you know why. He was much more likely not to care a damn what you did.”
“Well, he didn't like Rudolph,” said Antonia restively. “He wanted me to make a better match.”
Giles sighed. “You'd better let me see his letter. Where is it?”
She pointed to the ashtray at the end of the table, a sort of naughty triumph in her eyes.
Giles looked at the black ashes in it, and then rather sternly at his cousin. “Tony, you little fool, what made you do such a damned silly thing?”
“I had to, Giles; really I had to! You know that awful way we all have of blurting out what we happen to be thinking? Well, I went and told those policemen I'd had a letter from Arnold, and they were instantly mustard keen to see it. And it hadn't anything to do with the murder; it was just private, so I burned it. It's no use asking me what was in it, because I shan't tell you. It just wasn't the sort of letter you want anyone else to see.”
He looked at her frowningly. “You're not making things very easy for me, Tony. I can't help you if you don't trust me.”