“Stop!” Garland’s teeth met with a quick snap. “And that led you to suspect that this letter was sent to me. I see, now, why you covertly approached the matter. You aimed to evoke some sign of self-betrayal on my part. Understand one thing, Mr. Parsons, right here and now,” he added with threatening vehemence. “I know nothing about this letter nor about Lottie Trent.”
“You did not see her, then, last evening,” said Nick, unruffled.
“No, sir; I did not.”
“Nor attempt to meet her?”
“Certainly not,” snapped Garland. “Why would I attempt to meet her? I would not have known where to find her. The girl is nothing to me.”
“I also happen to know, Mr. Garland, where she was about half past eight last evening,” Nick replied. “Unless I am very much mistaken, she was forcibly abducted by two or three men. That was accomplished just before the murder of the priest.”
“Murder? Priest?” gasped Garland, staring. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”
“I think, too, that it must have been before you, Mr. Garland, arrived in the grounds back of the St. Lawrence[{21}] Church and rectory. Otherwise, you might have prevented the abduction of Lottie Trent and the murder of Father Cleary. If you had arrived earlier——”
“Stop a moment!”
Garland lurched forward in his chair. He now was more than pale. The last vestige of color had vanished from his cheeks, leaving him ghastly and drawn, with lips as gray as ashes.