“That letter,” said Conroy, pointing to it. “I don’t know what it contains, but I heard what you said about it and saw what you did to the pad. You evidently suspect that the letter was written in this house. So it was, of course, in view of what you have discovered. But Kate Crandall did not write it.”
“How do you know that?” questioned Nick.
“Because I know who did write it.”
“Who?”
“The man who lives here and owns the place—Andy Duffy,” said Conroy emphatically.
“How do you know he wrote it?” Nick asked, with steadfast scrutiny.
“Because I saw him at work on it three or four evenings ago,” said Conroy. “I was reading, and he was seated at his desk. I wondered what he was doing, he was at work so long and kept tearing up sheets of paper.”
“Why didn’t you inquire?”
“It was none of my business. I picked out several pieces of the paper from the wastebasket, nevertheless, after he had quit and gone to bed. I found only some printed letters on them, instead of written, but I could make nothing out of what little I found. I did not suppose, of course, that he was engaged in anything crooked.”
Conroy told this story glibly and with an air of genuine veracity.[Pg 29]