Mrs. Malkin portentously shook her head and sighed, as one unburdening her mind.
“Only this can I say, sir: He was afraid of something—terribly afraid, sir. Something that came in the night.”
“What was it?” I demanded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“It was in the night that—it happened?” I asked.
She nodded; then, as if the prologue were over, as if she had prepared my mind sufficiently, she produced something from under her apron. She must have been holding it there all the time.
“It’s his diary, sir. It was lying here on the floor. I saved it for you, before the police could get their hands on it.”
I opened the little book. One of the sheets near the back was crumpled, and I glanced at it, idly. What I read there impelled me to slap the covers shut again.
“Did you read this?” I demanded.
She met my gaze, frankly.