I turned smilingly towards her.
“Not at all,” I responded equably. “Mr. Grainger wrote to the police and told them that if they would arrest Mr. Thoyne, he would produce evidence that he—Mr. Thoyne, I mean—murdered Sir Philip Clevedon.”
She blazed up in very queer fashion, and wheeled suddenly upon the old man.
“Did you say that?” she demanded.
“I wrote no letters,” he responded half sullenly. “I don’t know what they are talking about. It isn’t true.”
He had gone very white, and his hands were trembling violently.
“I think you’d better go,” Nora said quietly. “He will be ill if you worry him any more. I will talk to him, and let you—and see you again. But you’d better go now.”
I nodded to Pepster, who followed me out of the shop.
“He wrote those letters,” Pepster said, as we walked along.
“Yes, that seems fairly evident.”