He pushed the papers across the table to Austin, and resumed his own work.
Rapidly but methodically Austin ran through the dossiers one after another, his heart sinking as he did so. For Snell was right. They provided, with much other information, a complete record of the movements, on the day of the murder, of presumably every one of the group of refugees with whom Boris Melikoff was associated, compiled from personal interrogation of each and verified by further searching investigation. In the face of this no shadow of suspicion could fall on any one of them. Almost mechanically he memorized the names and addresses—one never knew when such information might come in useful.
“Well?” asked Snell laconically as he finished.
“You’re right, of course. I must say you’ve done the thing pretty thoroughly.”
“As usual. Though the public, and some people who might be expected to know better, don’t give us credit for it,” said Snell dryly. “It was easy enough in this case, as they’re all aliens and registered as such. We keep an eye on them all, as a matter of course, and we’ve known all there is to know about this lot ever since they landed. Quite a harmless lot, in my opinion.”
“Yet you didn’t know at the time that Lady Rawson was one of them,” suggested Austin. “You told me so yourself.”
“Quite so; but then she wasn’t registered—not necessary as she became ‘British’ on her marriage.”
“If their meetings were so harmless why did she steal those papers from her husband?”