“I will tell you nothing. Go away.”
“You are obstinate, I know,” said Bruce, “but I must warn you that you are juggling with edged tools. You should not imagine that you can trifle with murder. What is your motive for deliberately trying to conceal Lady Dyke’s death? If you do not answer me you may be asked the question in a court of law.”
“You have no right to come here annoying me!” she retorted.
“I am not here to annoy you. I come, rather, as a friend, to appeal to you not to incur the grave risk of keeping from the authorities information which they ought to possess.”
“What information?”
“The reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke’s house so suddenly, the source from which you obtain your money, paid to you, doubtless, to secure your silence, the motive which impelled you to use your ability to imitate her ladyship’s handwriting in order to spread the false news that she is alive. This is the information needed, and your wilful refusal to give it constitutes a grave indictment.”
“I don’t care that for you, Mr. Bruce,” replied the girl, her face set now in a scarlet temper, while she snapped her fingers to emphasize the words. “You can do and say what you like, I will tell you nothing.”
“You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir Charles Dyke last Saturday?”
“I am waiting for my tea. Sorry I can’t ask you to join me.”
“Your flippancy will not avail you. See, here is the letter itself—your own production—written on paper of which you have a quantity in this very room.”