“A great deal, Miss Hoode.” In spite of his aversion his tone was blandly courteous.
“I cannot imagine——”
“Please—one moment,” said Anthony. “As you know, I came down here to Marling to find out, if possible, who killed your brother. A——”
“That task,” said the woman, “has already been performed.”
“Not quite, I think. In my opinion, young Deacon had no more to do with the murder than I. Each minute I spend in this house increases my certainty. This morning I found something I had been looking for, something that may throw a light where one is badly needed, something which you must tell me about.”
She drew herself yet more upright on her straight-backed chair.
“Mr. Gethryn,” she said, “I like neither your manner nor your manners.”
“Unfortunately,” said Anthony grimly, “neither manner nor manners matter just now. Miss Hoode, I started on this business half out of boredom, half because a friend asked me to; but now—well, I’m going to finish it.”
“But—but I don’t understand at all what you are talking about.” The woman was plainly bewildered, yet there seemed in her tone to be an uneasiness not born of bewilderment alone.
Anthony took from his breast-pocket a thick packet of letters. The paper was a deep mauve, the envelopes covered with heavy, sprawling characters. The bundle was held together by a broad ribbon, this too of deep mauve. He balanced the little bundle in the palm of his hand; then looked up to see white rage on the bony, dull face of the woman. The rage, he thought, was not unmixed with fear; but not the kind of fear he had expected.