"Yes," he said. "I have read several of them."
Beecher Monmouth took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then he bent down and slowly gathered a handful of the letters. But before he could read another, John placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. He was moved by the tragedy that was about to strike this elderly man, who seemed so ill able to bear it.
"Mr. Monmouth," he said, "it is only fair that you should know all the truth. I can see no other way out."
"What is the truth?" asked Monmouth in a dazed voice.
"I am here," John answered, "on behalf of our Intelligence Department, to make a search of your wife's belongings."
"Intelligence Department!" echoed Beecher Monmouth.
"Yes," John said; "and I am afraid it will be my duty to take away all the letters in this room. In the meantime, however, I am prepared for you to study them at your leisure."
"What do you mean?" asked Monmouth. "Intelligence Department——"
"You will learn everything from the letters, which you can read if you wish—on condition, of course, that you give me your word of honour as a gentleman to destroy nothing. Also you will remain indoors, within call, until I have communicated with my chief of department."
Beecher Monmouth put a shaking hand over his brow.