"It was over there—almost by that—your little bookcase there."
She pointed to a small oaken bookstand which stood slightly in advance of the more imposing shelves in which reposed the portentous volumes of newspaper clippings and photographs which constituted Crewe's "Rogues' Library."
"Now we come to the letters. You took them from the secret drawer in the desk. Why did you remove them?"
"Because I would not have the police agents find them, for then they would want to know so much."
"And what did you do with them?"
"Monsieur Crewe, I destroyed them. When I got home I burnt them all—I was so frightened."
"You mean you were frightened to keep them in your possession after the judge was killed?"
"Yes. What place had I to keep them safe from prying eyes? So, monsieur, I burnt them all—one by one—and the charred fragments I kept and took into the Park next day, where I scattered them unobserved."
"And what became of the letter you wrote to Sir Horace Fewbanks at Craigleith Hall, asking him to come to London and save you from your husband's persecutions?"
She looked at him earnestly in the endeavour to ascertain if he had laid a trap for her.