“First read your letter, Mr. Withers. Put your questions afterwards.”
He scanned the brief epistle with looks which did not improve as he went on. Then he snapped at me as if he would have liked to bite as well.
“You stole it; you must have stolen it! I’ve half a mind to give you in charge; you don’t know what mischief you mayn’t have done.”
“Is the person alluded to as ‘that scoundrel’ in the letter which you are holding Mr. Edwin Lawrence of Imperial Mansions?”
“What do you want to know for? What do you mean by meddling in my affairs? What business is it of yours?”
“Because, if it is, Mr. Edwin Lawrence is dead.”
“Dead!”
“He was murdered last night.”
“Murdered!” The fashion of his countenance changed. “Then she—she killed him.”
He staggered back till he staggered against a chair. A pitiful object he presented as he perched himself upon the edge. Neither Miss Adair nor I said a word. After a moment’s interval, during which the muscles of his face twitched as if he had become suddenly possessed with St. Vitus’ Dance, he went rambling on, apparently not altogether conscious of what it was that he was saying.