“In the armoury!”
“Right.”
“In the armoury?” Crofts echoed dully, his brow scowling down.
How clear the recollection was: the armoury in misty bluish light, the three vague shapes of men, the one with the white tuft and shirt-front picking the pockets of the other two, the narrow face at the candle before the room was turned to darkness. Unsuccessful that search must have been; Cosgrove must have “posted” this letter afterward. But what was Lord Ludlow’s part in this muddle? Surely he played an extra hand, perhaps a lone hand. I looked at his guileless countenance and would have given a guinea to know what was going on behind it.
I shifted my attention to Salt again. “But there must have been some disturbance, Superintendent. I don’t believe that even you—”
“Cleanin’,” acknowledged Salt. “Miss Carmody—Jael, that is—was dustin’ about. No question she shook it loose, for it was lyin’ on the floor under the newer suit of armour when I passed through at twelve o’clock.”
“But I don’t see—why, the mail is—” commenced Mrs. Bartholomew diffidently.
“The coat of mail, the coat of mail,” growled Bob Cullen.
“That’s it,” said Salt. “You see, Mr. Pendleton, you had a little Post Office here after all. This note was tucked away between the chain-mail and the cuirass. Couldn’t have been a better hidin’-place, as long as there were no children in the house to pick things to pieces.”
The ladies had passed from the room, and we were on the point of following, when Salt recalled us with a casual remark. “Well, I’m poppin’ off now, gentlemen.”