"Oh, give him a little time!" said France sharply, "give him a little time." Then, with a change of tone—"The anonymous letters, of course, are the really interesting things in the case. Perhaps you have a theory about them?"
The Professor shrugged his shoulders.
"None whatever. I have seen three—including that published in the Post. I understand about twenty have now been traced; and that they grow increasingly dramatic and detailed. Evidently some clever fellow—who knows a great deal—with a grudge against Meynell?"
"Ye—es," said France, with hesitation.
"You suspect somebody?"
"Not at all. It is a black business."
Then with one large and powerful hand, France restrained the kitten, who was for deserting his knee, and with the other he drew toward him the folio volume on which he had been engaged when the Professor came in.
Vetch took the hint, said a rather frosty good-bye, and departed.
"A popinjay!" said France to himself when he was left alone, thinking with annoyance of the Professor's curly hair, of his elegant serge suit, and the gem from Knossos that he wore on the little finger of his left hand. Then he took up a large pipe which lay beside his books, filled it, and hung meditatively over the fire. He was angry with Vetch, and disgusted with himself.
"Why haven't I given Meynell a helping hand? Why did I talk like that to Barron when he first began this business? And why have I let him come here as he has done since—without telling him what I really thought of him?"