“These,” he said, “are what I want you to explain. To explain, that is, who they are from, and why you took them from your brother’s desk and hid them again in your own room.”
She rose to her feet; moved a step forward. “You—you——” she began, and choked on the words.
Anthony stood up. “Oh, I know I’m a filthy spy. Don’t imagine that I think this private inquiry agent game is anything but noisome. It has been nasty, it will be nasty, and it is nasty, in spite of the cachet of Conan Doyle. I know, none better, that to rifle your room while you were at the inquest this morning was a filthy thing to do. I know that brow-beating you now is filthier—but I’m going to find out who killed your brother.”
“It was that boy,” said the woman, white-lipped. She had fallen back into her chair.
“It was not that boy. And that’s why I shall go on thinking and spying and crawling and bullying until I find out who it really was. Now, tell me why you stole those letters.” He moved forward and stood looking down at her.
An ugly, dull flush spread over her face. She sat erect. Her colourless eyes flamed.
“You think—you dare to think I killed him?” she cried in a dreadful whisper.
Anthony shook his head. “Not necessarily. I shall know better what I think when you’ve told me what I want to know.”
“But what have those foul scratchings to do with—with John’s death?” She pointed a shaking finger at the little package in his hands.
“Nothing, everything, or just enough,” said Anthony. “You’re asking me the very questions which I want you, indirectly, to answer.”