“Yes. Also I have bundles of letters which Paul Chapin has at various times written to my uncle, and a sort of diary which my uncle kept, and a book of records showing sums advanced to Paul Chapin from 1919 to 1928 by my uncle and others, and a list of the names and addresses of the members — that is, of the men who were present in 1909 when it happened. A few other things.”
“Preposterous. You have all that? Why not the police?”
Evelyn Hibbard shook her head. “I decided not. These things were in a very private file of my uncle’s. They were precious to him, and they are now precious to me... in a different way. The police would get no help from them, but you might. And you would not abuse them. Would you?”
At the pause I glanced up, and saw Wolfe’s lips pushing out a little... then in, then out again... That excited me. It always did, even when I had no idea what it was all about. I watched him. He said, “Miss Hibbard. You mean you removed this file from the notice of the police, and kept it, and have now brought it to me? Containing the names and addresses of the members of the League of Atonement? Remarkable.”
She stared at him. “Why not? It has no information that they cannot easily obtain elsewhere — from Mr. Farrell or Dr. Burton or Mr. Drummond — any of them—”
“All the same, remarkable.” Wolfe reached to his desk and pushed a button. “Will you have a glass of beer? I drink beer, but would not impose my preferences. There is available a fair port, Solera, Dublin stout, Maderia, and more especially a Hungarian vin du pays which comes to me from the cellar of the vineyard. Your choice...”
She shook her head. “Thank you.”
“I may have beer?”
“Please do.”
Wolfe did not lean back again. He said, “If the package could perhaps be opened? I am especially interested in that first warning.”