"You sent me a letter yesterday, Mr. Woodroffe."
"I did," he said huskily. Then, with a feeling of being cross-examined, he cleared his throat and tried to assume an attitude of dignity.
"This is the letter, I believe. Read it, to make sure."
"That is the letter."
"Oh! And you are come, I suppose, to talk over the matter, to see what you can make out of it. Well, sir, I have taken advice upon this letter. I was advised to have the door shut in your face; I was advised to send you to my lawyers; but I am not afraid, even of the black-mailer. I resolved to see you. Now, sir, you may sit down, if you like." Richard sank into a chair, his cheeks flaming. "Go on, then," she added impatiently. "Don't waste my time. Explain this letter, sir, instantly."
She rapped the table sharply with a paper-knife. The triumphant detective jumped.
"I can—I can explain it." The poor young man felt all his confidence slipping away from him. For it looked as if she was actually going to brazen it out—a contingency that had not occurred to him.
"One moment, Mr. Woodroffe. I am the more inclined to give you an opportunity to explain personally, because I hear that my son has already met you. I can hardly say, made your acquaintance—met you—and that you are, or pretend to be—it matters nothing—a distant cousin of his. And now, sir, having said so much, I am prepared to listen."
"I can give you the whole story, Lady Woodroffe."
"The whole story? A whole story, you mean. Call things by their right names. But go on. Do not occupy my time needlessly, and do not be tedious."