She read over the long sentence, and then a look of bewilderment and pain struggled together in her face.
“Well,” asked the detective gravely, “have you any suspicion at all as to who wrote these letters?”
She knitted her forehead and remained silent for quite a long time, and James Kentworthy’s hopes rose high.
But at last: “I have no suspicion,” said Jean Bower slowly.
“Your uncle thought that they might be the work of that Miss Prince, who lives in the Thatched Cottage.”
“I’m sure not,” said Jean, shaking her head. “Miss Prince is a spiteful woman, and she has never liked Harry, but she’s not a fiend.”
James Kentworthy looked at her with increased respect.
“I agree,” he said, “it’s never any use trying to convince oneself of what, deep at the back of one’s mind, one knows is not the case. But I won’t conceal from you that I’m disappointed! Somehow I hoped you would be able to help me, Miss Bower, and now I feel as if we were up against a blank wall.”
She said nothing, for she felt terribly oppressed—the knowledge that there was some one in the world who intensely hated both Harry Garlett and herself filled her with a kind of unreasoning terror.
“I’m not giving up hope, mind you,” went on Kentworthy. “We’ve a long time before us yet, and after all”—he was now speaking as if to himself—“we’re lucky to have secured Sir Harold Anstey.”