“But, my dear Mary,” exclaimed the little Major in a shocked voice, “you can’t do things that way! Don’t you see you may be hindering the course of justice? The police may attach the greatest importance to this letter ...”
“You’re quite right,” retorted the girl, “they do!”
“Then why have you kept it from them?”
Mary Trevert dropped her eyes and a little band of crimson flushed into her cheeks.
“Because,” she commenced, “because ... well, because they are trying to implicate a friend of mine ...”
The Major took the girl’s hand.
“Mary,” he said, “I’ve known you all your life. I’ve knocked about a good bit and know something of the world, I believe. Suppose you tell me all about it ...”
Mary Trevert hesitated. Then she said, her hands nervously toying with her muff:
“We believe that Robin Greve—you know whom I mean—had a conversation with Hartley just before he ... he shot himself. That very afternoon Robin had asked me to marry him, but I told him about my engagement. He said some awful things about Hartley and rushed away. Ten minutes later Hartley Parrish committed suicide. And there was some one talking to him in the library. Bude, the butler, heard the voices. This afternoon I went down to the library alone ... to see if I could discover anything likely to throw any light on poor Hartley’s death. This was the only letter I could find. It was tucked away between two letter-trays. One tray fitted into the other, and this letter had slipped between. It seems to have been overlooked both by Mr. Parrish’s secretary and the police ...”
“But I confess,” argued the Major, “that I don’t see how this letter, which appears to be a very ordinary business communication, implicates anybody at all. Why shouldn’t the police see it?...”