“On the floor,” she went on, “was a white paper, and when I picked it up I found on it some pencil marks I had made myself. I had been into Midlington and had called on Mr. Grainger, who asked me if I would deliver a packet at Mr. Thoyne’s house, as he had no other means of sending it. Of course, I said I would. At the station I looked up some trains on the time-table, and having no other paper with me, I noted them in pencil on the back of the little packet Mr. Grainger had given me.”
So was explained the mysterious figures on the paper I had found in Nora Lepley’s curious hiding-place. I regarded her thoughtfully for a moment or two.
“You had delivered that packet at Mr. Thoyne’s house?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You thought Mr. Thoyne had passed it on to Sir Philip.”
“That’s what I thought—yes.”
“That he had procured some prussic acid from Mr. Grainger, so that he might murder Sir Philip?”
“Yes—and then it occurred to me—that if Sir Philip—that perhaps they might think he had been stabbed if—if the hatpin was found.”
“You did it to protect Thoyne?”
That she had been in love with Thoyne seemed evident; that she would never confess as much was equally obvious; and I had no desire to force her confidence. The fact was sufficient for me; the motive I was content to leave in doubt, or at least, unexpressed. That was the difficulty I had in telling my story to my little audience. I was determined they should not draw the inference I had found inevitable.