"What could he find?" Bobby asked.
"If the court was planted," Graham answered, "why shouldn't these rooms have been?"
"After last night I don't believe the court was planted," Bobby said.
In the lower hall the elevator man handed Bobby the mail that had come since the night of his grandfather's murder. In the car again he glanced over the envelopes. He tore one open with a surprised haste.
"This is Maria's handwriting," he told Graham.
He read the hastily scrawled note aloud with a tone that failed toward the end.
"DEAR BOBBY;
"You must not, as you say, think me a bad sport. You were very wicked last night. Maybe you were so because of too many of those naughty little cocktails. Why should you threaten poor Maria? And you boasted you were going out to the Cedars to kill your grandfather because you didn't like him any more. So I told Carlos to take you home. I was afraid of a scene in public. Come around. Have tea with me. Tell me you forgive me. Tell me what was the matter with you."
"She must have written that yesterday morning," Bobby muttered. "Good
Lord, Hartley! Then it was in my mind!"
"Unless that letter's a plant, too," Graham said. "Yet how could she know there'd be a search? Why shouldn't she have addressed it to the Cedars where there was a fair chance of its being opened and read by the police? Why hasn't my man made any report on her? We've a number of questions to ask Maria."