The shot was a bold one, and it very nearly hit the mark. She was staggered, almost subdued by this melodramatic production of the original, and his clever guess at the existence of similar notepaper in the house.
But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Harding was British, notwithstanding her penchant for a French-sounding name, and she would have died sooner than beat a retreat.
“I will thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce,” she said.
There was nothing for it but to retire as gracefully as possible, but the barrister was more than satisfied with the result of his visit. He had now established beyond a shadow of doubt that for some reason which he could not fathom the ex-lady’s maid not only knew of her mistress’s death, but wished to conceal it.
This desire, too, had the essential feature of every other branch of the inquiry; it grew to maturity long after the day when Lady Dyke was actually killed. What did it all mean?
From Bloomsbury he strolled west to Portman Square, and found Sir Charles on the point of going for a drive in the Park.
He briefly told him his discovery.
The baronet at first was sceptical. “Do you mean to say, Claude,” he cried, fretfully, “that I do not know my wife’s writing when I see it?”
“You may think you do, but when another person can imitate it exactly, of course, you may be deceived. Besides, if this girl, as is probable, was helped in her education by your wife, what is more likely than that Jane Harding should seek to copy that which she would consider the ideal of excellence. Don’t harbor any delusions in the matter, Dyke. The letter you received on Monday morning was written by Jane Harding. I am sure of that from her manner no less than from the accidental resemblance of the two styles of handwriting. What I could not find out was her motive for the deceit.”