“I’ll have to ask you to wait in the reception-room for a few minutes. Another urgent matter has just arisen.”
Cleaver went out without a word, and Markham opened the folder.
“I don’t like this sort of thing, Sergeant. I told you so yesterday when you suggested it.”
“I understand, sir.” Heath, I felt, was not as contrite as his tone indicated. “But if those letters and things are all right, and Cleaver hasn’t been lying to us about ’em, I’ll have my man put ’em back so’s no one’ll ever know they were taken. And if they do make Cleaver out a liar, then we’ve got a good excuse for grabbing ’em.”
Markham did not argue the point. With a gesture of distaste he began running through the letters, looking particularly at the dates. Two photographs he put back after a cursory glance; and one piece of paper, which appeared to contain a pen-and-ink sketch of some kind, he tore up with disgust and threw into the waste-basket. Three letters, I noticed, he placed to one side. After five minutes’ inspection of the others, he returned them to the folder. Then he nodded to Heath.
“Bring Cleaver back.” He rose and, turning, gazed out of the window.
As soon as Cleaver was again seated before the desk Markham said, without looking round:
“You told me it was last June that you bought your letters back from Miss Odell. Do you recall the date?”
“Not exactly,” said Cleaver easily. “It was early in the month, though—during the first week, I think.”
Markham now spun about and pointed to the three letters he had segregated.