Abbershaw refused both. He was clearly ill at ease, and he sat silent for some moments after the first words of greeting, staring moodily into the fire.
‘Wyatt,’ he said suddenly, ‘I’ve known you for a good many years. Believe me, I’ve not forgotten that when I ask you this question.’
Wyatt leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, his liqueur glass lightly held in his long, graceful fingers. Abbershaw turned in his chair until he faced the silent figure.
‘Wyatt,’ he said slowly and evenly, ‘why did you stab your uncle?’
No expression appeared upon the still pale face of the man to whom he had spoken. For some moments he did not appear to have heard.
At last he sighed and, leaning forward, set his glass down upon the little book-table by his side.
‘I’ll show you,’ he said.
Abbershaw took a deep breath. He had not been prepared for this; almost anything would have been easier to bear.
Meanwhile Wyatt crossed over to a small writing-desk let into a wall of bookshelves and, unlocking it with a key which he took from his pocket, produced something from a drawer; carrying it back to the fire-place, he handed it to his visitor.
Abbershaw took it and looked at it with some astonishment.