“For identification, you mean?” Pendleton turned the cardboard over between his fingers, dubiously. “It’s like last night’s—cut round the edges with scissors or a knife—might have been part of the bottom of a box of sweets.” His voice was despairing. “I suppose enough board for twenty foul things like this comes into this house every week. And in all Wales—”
“Our search—supposing we go about a search—will hardly be as broad as that,” said Cosgrove, and I was struck, as many times before, by the lack of lightness in his voice. He meant just that: that if the placard were investigated, the whole country need not be drawn into the matter.
Our host turned to the Irishman: “Search won’t do any good; that’s certain sure. But I’ll have the servants up this afternoon. (Bannerlee, you be with me while I question ’em and tell me what you think of their candour—you’ve no prejudices, you know.) Sean, what do you think of it? Are you alarmed?”
Cosgrove laughed contemptuously.
“But it’s directed to you this time.”
“It’s casual, casual. What could anyone—what could this meddler have against me?”
“It was left in your room.”
“By chance,” insisted Cosgrove. “There could have been no malice toward me in it.”
“But, by gad, what shall I tell the people here?”
“Nothing—and swear the woman Harmony to whisper never a word.”