“Do you recall the exact wording of the coded message in the thirteenth letter?” he asked, after a brief silence.
“Yes. It was: ‘Watch thirteenth letter suicides grave,’” she looked at him inquiringly. “Does the word ‘suicide’ take the possessive ‘s’, or is its meaning plural?”
“That remains to be seen.” He turned the car into the driveway to Abbott’s Lodge, and before stopping under the porte cochère, addressed her in a voice carefully lowered to reach her ear alone. “Say nothing of the thirteen letters to any one.”
“Of course not!”
He was quick to detect her hurt tone. “Forgive me,” he begged, and his low, earnest voice impressed her. “I depend on your aid absolutely and trust you implicitly,” then as she flashed a glance upward of glad relief, he added, “Don’t forget those five words, for I firmly believe that the solution to Paul’s mysterious murder rests in the thirteenth letter.” Their approach had been seen from inside the Lodge and Corbin swung open the door. Trenholm had opportunity for only one hurried sentence, “The thirteenth letter,” he repeated, under his breath, “of the alphabet is ‘M.’”
Corbin favored Miriam with an unpleasant glance as she sped by him into the house, but touched his forehead, with some show of respect, to Trenholm.
“Mrs. Nash wishes to see ye,” he stated. His shifty eyes fell before the sheriff’s steady gaze. “Can I have a word with ye, sir; me and Martha—”
“Yes?” inquiringly, as the caretaker paused in uncertainty. “Well?”
Corbin licked his lips. Talking to the sheriff was not quite so easy a task as he had represented to Martha, and he instantly shifted the responsibility.
“Martha’s dressin’ now, sir; but she’ll be down d’reckly,” he mumbled. “An’ before ye go, sir, please ask for her.”