“Not very well.”
“What does that mean?”
“Our informant is anonymous. He sent me a letter.”
“And since when have you begun to place implicit faith in anonymous letters, my dear Gillett?”
The detective flushed under this gentle irony. “I don’t place implicit faith in it. But it fits in with other information in our possession. And you ought to know better than to despise anonymous information, Mr. Crewe. It is not difficult to conceive circumstances in which a man is willing to give the police very valuable information, but will not come into the open to do it.”
“But it is even less difficult,” replied Crewe, “to conceive circumstances in which a man tries to divert suspicion from himself by directing the attentions of the police to some one else by means of an anonymous letter.”
“I haven’t overlooked that,” said Gillett confidently.
“And this anonymous communication fits in with other information in your possession—other information that you have received from Miss Maynard?” Crewe looked steadily at Gillett, and then turned his gaze on Westaway.
“So, you know about her?” was Gillett’s comment.
“She did me the honour of asking my advice when I met her two days ago at Cliff Farm.”