“Have you any of his letters?”
“I b’lieve I’ve got the last.” She went to a drawer and hunted amidst some odds and ends.
“Here it is; no, ’tis only the envelope.”
“Give me the envelope,” said Freyberger. It was a narrow, shabby-looking envelope, addressed in a curious-looking handwriting. It was post-marked “Skirwith,” “Carlisle” and “London, W.C.”
“This is Mr Kolbecker’s handwriting?” asked the detective.
“It is.”
“I must keep this envelope, please.”
“No, you don’t,” replied the landlady, suddenly waxing wroth. “Here, you gimme that envelope back; you comes in and asks me questions which I answer about my lodgers. You say you’re from Scotland Yard. How’m I to know? Gimme that back.”
Freyberger put the envelope in his pocket.
“If you want my credentials,” he said, “call in a constable; every man in this division knows me. Now listen. Mr Kolbecker left you six weeks ago and went to Cumberland?”