“Mrs. Winthrop wished me to tell you, Captain Lane, that she bitterly regrets her hasty action. I never saw anyone so completely broken up. It seems she wanted that graceless stepson of hers to marry her niece, Miss Carew, so that he would eventually inherit the Carew fortune. Then she has a natural antipathy for you because you are your father’s son, and she was, unfortunately, only too ready to believe you guilty. Annette told her a number of lies,”—Brett shrugged his shoulders expressively,—“and there you have it—along with other circumstantial evidence, which would have pretty nearly convicted you.”
Lane flushed angrily. “So Mrs. Winthrop took the word of a worthless servant, the better to humiliate me....”
“Had Annette any grounds for her accusation?” questioned Brett swiftly. “Mrs. Owen said her library desk file mysteriously disappeared the night of her dance.”
“A coincidence which I cannot account for,” declared Lane, looking the detective squarely in the eye. “It may be that Annette saw the end of my silver handled umbrella which I was carrying, and in the uncertain light mistook it for a weapon of some sort.”
“Considering Annette’s natural disposition to lie,” broke in Douglas, “I think it highly probable that she made up the story, and told it to Miss Carew.”
“And probably promised to keep silent if Miss Carew paid her,” suggested Brett scornfully. “It’s too bad Miss Carew permitted the maid to blackmail her.”
“What about the threatening letters to Senator Carew which Mrs. Winthrop thought I sent?” inquired Lane.
“Philip Winthrop wrote them.”
“The miserable scoundrel!” ejaculated Lane.