"The only other members of my household are my daughter Theresa, and occasionally, for a week or two, my son Maurice. I answer for them both."
"Your son Maurice is at work in London."
"He is in business—the manager of an office," said Barron stiffly.
The Bishop's face was shrewdly thoughtful. After a pause he said:
"You have, of course, examined the handwriting? But I understand that recently all the letters have been typewritten?"
"All but two—the letter to Dawes, and a letter which I believe was received by Mrs. Elsmere. I gave the Dawes letter to Meynell at his request."
"Having failed to identify the handwriting?"
"Certainly."
Yet, even as he spoke, for the first time, a sudden misgiving, like the pinch of an insect, brushed Barron's consciousness. He had not, as a matter of fact, examined the Dawes letter very carefully, having been, as he now clearly remembered, in a state of considerable mental excitement during the whole time it was in his possession and thinking much more of the effect of the first crop of letters on the situation, than of the details of the Dawes letter itself. But he did remember, now that the Bishop pressed him, that when he first looked at the letter he had been conscious of a momentary sense of likeness to a handwriting he knew; to Maurice's handwriting, in fact. But he had repelled the suggestion as absurd in the first instance, and after a momentary start, he angrily repelled it now.
The Bishop emerged from a brown study.