“Good God!” Anthony was startled into surprise. He was a fervent admirer, from this side the footlights, of the beautiful Russian. He reflected that politicians were not always unlucky.
He got to his feet. The woman started into life.
“The letters!” she cried. “Give me the letters!”
He handed them to her. “My only stipulation,” he said, “is that they’re not to be destroyed until I give the word.” He looked at her searchingly. “I know that you won’t attempt to be rid of them until then. And please believe, Miss Hoode, that you have my sincere sympathy, and that there will be no idle talk of what we two know.”
“Oh, I believe you,” she said wearily. “And now, I suppose you are happy. Though what good you have done Heaven alone knows!”
Anthony looked down at her. “The good I have done is this: I have added to my knowledge. I know, now, that you had nothing to do with your brother’s death. And I know there is a woman in the business and who she is. She may not be concerned either directly or indirectly, but the hackneyed French saying is often a useful principle to work on.”
The pale eyes of Laura Hoode regarded him with curiosity. He felt with surprise that she seemed every minute to grow more human.
“You are an unusual person, Mr. Gethryn,” she said. “You spy upon me and torture me—and yet I feel that I like you.” She paused; then went on: “You’ll tell me that you know that the young man Deacon did not kill my brother; you tell me that although I have behaved so suspiciously you know also that I had nothing to do with—with the crime. How do you know these things?”
Anthony smiled. “I know,” he said, “because you both told me. I know that neither of you did it as you would know, after talking to him, that the bishop hadn’t really stolen the little girl’s sixpence, even though all the newspapers had said he did. Now I must go. Good-night.”
He left Laura Hoode smiling, smiling as she had not for many months.