“Has anything occurred in his life that would suggest that such a crime might be looked for?”
But the coroner cut him short in such a freezing manner that Westerham rightly guessed that Rookley had been using a tactful influence.
“I consider that question,” said the coroner, “a most improper one. We have been assured by Mr. Rookley that there is not the slightest reason to associate Mr. Robinson with this crime. Interference on your part is out of place, and may even lead to a miscarriage of justice. I am perfectly certain that this matter may be safely left to the police, who should be allowed to take their own course of action.”
The juryman grumbled a little, but subsided, and the sharp eyes of the reporters at the tables looked disappointed.
A verdict of wilful murder by some person unknown concluded the inquest, from which Westerham hurried in order to evade further questionings from curious journalists.
He imagined that his hotel was likely by this time to be beset by reporters, and so, having first acquainted Inspector Rookley with his intention, he went back to his rooms in Bruton Street.
There even the mask-like face of his valet bore some traces of distrust and curiosity. It was, however, without a word that the man handed him a note.
To his surprise, and with a little leap of his heart, Westerham saw that it was addressed in a woman's hand-writing, and for a moment he thought that the letter might be from Lady Kathleen. But he was very roughly undeceived, for, tearing open the envelope, his eye instantly caught the address—“Laburnum Road, St. John's Wood”—while across half a sheet of newspaper was scrawled:—
“For Lady Kathleen's sake, come to me at once.
“Marie Estelle.”