Wilfred's eyes narrowed. He had not forgotten what Angela had said about this man wanting her to marry his son. He gazed piercingly at his visitor, no longer deceived by the superficial geniality of his appearance. He had read too many detective stories where the fat, jolly, red-faced man turns out a fiend in human shape to be a ready victim to appearances.
'Indeed?' he said, coldly. 'I should prefer to have this information from Miss Purdue's own lips.'
'She won't see you. But, anticipating this attitude on your part, I brought a letter from her. You recognize the writing?'
Wilfred took the letter. Certainly, the hand was Angela's, and the meaning of the words he read unmistakable. Nevertheless, as he handed the missive back, there was a hard smile on his face.
'There is such a thing as writing a letter under compulsion,' he said.
The baronet's pink face turned mauve.
'What do you mean, sir?'
'What I say.'
'Are you insinuating—'
'Yes, I am.'