“Yes. He showed me a letter signed by you, in your handwriting. It was about a meeting you were to have with him.”
Turl pondered, till Florence resumed the attack.
“We don't pretend to know where that particular meeting occurred. But we do know that you visited the last place Murray Davenport was traced to in New York. We have a great deal of evidence connecting you with him about the time of his disappearance. We have so much that there would be no use in your denying that you had some part in his affairs.”
She paused, to give him a chance to speak. But he only gazed at her with a thoughtful, regretful perplexity. So she went on:
“We don't say—yet—whether that part was friendly, indifferent,—or evil.”
The last word, and the searching look that accompanied it, drew a swift though quiet answer:
“It wasn't evil, I give you my word.”
“Then you admit you did have a part in his disappearance?” said Larcher, quickly.
“I may as well. Miss Kenby says you have evidence of it. You have been clever—or I have been stupid.—I'm sorry Davenport showed you my letter.”
“Then, as your part was not evil,” pursued Florence, with ill-repressed eagerness, “you can't object to telling us about him. Where is he now?”