“We will suppose,” he went on, measuring his words, “that Mr. Garlett, while admitting he was in the wood, refuses to give up the name of his companion. Well, if you fail to extract that information from Lucy Warren you must try and think of some other way of discovering who the woman was. To do that, you must, if you will forgive the expression, stick at nothing.”
She said timidly: “I suppose you’ve seen the anonymous letters—the letters which started the whole trouble?”
“The anonymous letters?” he exclaimed. “There isn’t a word about them here!”
Sir Harold Anstey went over to his writing table and sat down.
“Have you copies of these letters in your possession?” he asked.
“Yes, I have them here,” she said in a low voice, “but I don’t want to get Mr. Kentworthy into trouble, Sir Harold. I’m afraid he ought not to have kept these facsimiles.”
“Thank God, he did! Show them to me at once.”
He spoke in a peremptory tone.
Jean Bower opened her bag and silently laid the three sheets of paper before him.
He bent over them for what seemed to her a very long time, but at last he looked up.