"Go on, Daniel; answer Sylvia's question."
"Mr. Fitch gave it to me. It had been entrusted to him for delivery by a personal friend or a client: I never knew. He assured me that he had no idea what the letter contained; but he knew of course where it came from. He chose me for the errand, I suppose, because I was a new man in the office, and a comparative stranger in town. I remember that he asked me if I had ever been in Montgomery, as though to be sure I had no acquaintances there. I carried back a verbal answer—which was stipulated in the letter. The answer was 'No,' and in what way Mr. Fitch passed it on to his client I never knew."
"You didn't tell me those things when we found the letter, Daniel," said Mrs. Owen reproachfully.
The old lady opened a drawer, found a chamois skin, and polished her glasses slowly. Dan walked away as though to escape from that figure with averted face crouching by the fire. But without moving Sylvia spoke again, with a monotonous level of tone, and her question had the empty ring of a lawyer's interrogatory worn threadbare by repetition to a succession of witnesses:—
"At that time was Mr. Bassett among the clients of Wright and Fitch, and did you ever see him in the office then, or at any time?"
Mrs. Owen closed the drawer deliberately and raised her eyes to Dan's affrighted gaze.
"Daniel, you'd better run along now. Sylvia's going to spend the night here."
Sylvia had not moved or spoken again when the outer door closed on Harwood.