Hannasyde drew in his breath. “What there was you saw, Mr Carrington,” he said patiently. “You saw the pipe, the pistol, the half-finished letter in the blotter, the glass of whisky-and-soda, and the note from - no, you didn't see that, now I come to think of it. Hemingway found it after you'd left. But it hasn't any bearing on the case that I can see. It was only a note from Miss Vereker, thanking her half-brother for -” He broke off, for Giles Carrington's sleepy eyes had opened suddenly.
“A note from Miss Vereker…” Giles repeated. “A note - where was that found?”
“Screwed up in a ball behind the coal-scuttle. I should say that Roger Vereker meant to throw it into the fire, but missed his aim. Do you mean to tell me — ?”
“Where was the envelope?” Giles interrupted.
“We didn't find it. I suppose Vereker had a luckier shot with that. I wish you'd stop being mysterious and tell me just what you're driving at.”
“I will,” said Giles. “But when I think that if I'd only been present when that flat was searched you and not I would have spent an entirely hellish twenty-four hours trying to induce half-wits to identify a face - However, I'm glad I've found the link between the two cases. It annoyed me not to be able to present you with all the facts.” He saw the smouldering light in Hannasyde's eyes, and smiled. “All right, all right,” he said pacifically. “Violet Williams.”
Hannasyde blinked at him. “Violet Williams?” he said. “Are you seriously telling me that she murdered Roger Vereker?”
“Also Arnold Vereker,” said Giles.
“She had never met Arnold Vereker!”
“Oh yes, she had,” replied Giles. “She was the dark girl you couldn't trace.”