“Mr. Grainger,” I began, “we have come to see you about those letters you wrote to the police.”
He shrank back against the shelves behind him, and his face went suddenly grey. He pulled himself together immediately.
“I know nothing of any letters,” he said, moistening his lips. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, yes,” I responded cheerfully, “you promised to provide the evidence if—”
“Has Ronald Thoyne been arrested?” he broke in, with hardly concealed eagerness.
“Ronald Thoyne?” I echoed. “Did I mention Thoyne?”
“No, no,” he said, “you were referring to the—to Sir Philip Clevedon—yes.”
“I don’t think I even mentioned Clevedon,” I replied.
Grainger passed his hand wearily across his forehead, then faced me once more.
“No,” he said, almost as if he had made up his mind on a point on which he had been in some doubt. “I know nothing of any letters.”