“If you haven’t got this letter,” he observed, “what has become of it? Obviously the police are not likely to have taken it because they know nothing of its significance ...”
“Quite, quite,” answered Mr. Jeekes absently, but without replying to the young man’s question.
“Why,” asked Bruce boldly, “did old H.P. make such a mystery about these letters on the slatey-blue paper, Mr. Jeekes?”
The secretary wrinkled up his thin lips and sharp nose into a cunning smile.
“When you get to be my age, young Wright,” he made answer, “you will understand that every man has a private side to his life. And, if you have learnt your job properly, you will also know that a private secretary’s first duty is to mind his own business. About this letter now—it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Take my advice and don’t bother your head about it. If it exists ...”
“But it does exist,” broke in Bruce quickly. “Mr. Greve saw it and read it himself ...”
Mr. Jeekes laughed drily.
“Don’t you forget, young Wright,” he said, jerking his chin towards the youngster in a confidential sort of way, “don’t you forget that Mr. Greve is anxious to find a plausible motive for Mr. Parrish’s suicide. People are talking, you understand! That’s all I’ve got to say! Just you think it over ...”
Bruce Wright bristled up hotly at this.
“I don’t see you have any reason to try and impugn Greve’s motive for wishing to get at the bottom of this mysterious affair ...”