"Sir Horace destroyed it in Scotland, I suppose, if the police did not find it."
"Strange that he should have kept all your other letters so carefully and destroyed that one. Perhaps it was in his pocket-book that was stolen."
"I do not know. What does it matter? It has gone." She shrugged her shoulders lightly and indifferently.
"Do you know who stole the pocket-book?"
"No, monsieur. I thought it was stolen in the train."
"That is the police theory," replied Crewe. "But let that go. Have you, since the night of the murder, seen anything of Pierre?"
"Monsieur, I have not. It is as though the earth has him swallowed. He keeps silent with the silence of the grave."
"He is wise to do so," responded Crewe. "Now, mademoiselle, I have no more questions to ask you. Your confidence is safe; you need be under no apprehensions on that score."
"I care not for myself, Monsieur Crewe, so long as Madame Holymead is freed from the persecutions of the police agents," replied Gabrielle, rising from her seat as she spoke. "If, after hearing my story, you could but give me the assurance—"
"I think I can safely promise you that Mrs. Holymead will not be troubled with any further police attentions," said Crewe, after a moment's pause.