The wrong letter

by Walter S. Masterman

Then there was his own piece of evidence which was closing in. There was something else.

When he and Sinclair had discussed the matter in his flat, the latter had taken out the statement of Mrs. Simmons from his pocket book. He had done more. There had slipped on the floor a letter. Collins’ keen eyes had seen the signature ‘James Watson’ and the date. Under pretence of reading the statement he had picked up the letter and rapidly read it. So Sinclair had kept this from him, for some reason. What was he afraid of? Did he know more about the murder than he cared to own? There was nothing but his word that he had been in the office on the fateful afternoon. What a lark if the sober Sinclair—but he broke off suddenly. His quick ear had caught something that sounded in the house in spite of the wind, a stealthy step. He moved noiselessly to the landing.

There was a stirring in the house, as the wind increased in volume, but the other sound was quite distinct.

Very quietly Collins closed the door, and went to the window. Outside, the old ivy came round, but Collins preferred the safety of a rope. Even this would have been no easy work for a man who was not in condition. He hung for one moment turning round in the air as the wind caught him.

Once on the ground he made his way cautiously round the house till he arrived at the dining-room window. Here he paused. A wild gust of wind, with a wisp of rain in it, caught him, as he stood listening. Not a sound was heard from within, and no light was showing.

Was it a fool’s errand after all? The whole house was dead still. Collins felt his way round the corner. By the old, oak door he paused. All was dark, but a sort of ghostly radiance was shining on an ancient elm.

He stepped back from the house, and presently saw, high up in the gabled roof, a beam of light was shining from a slit in a shutter or a badly-fitting blind. Probably some servant who could not sleep, or was frightened at the weather.

Cold and wet he returned to beneath his window, and with the practised skill of an athlete hauled himself up.

He stood in thought. Unless he had made a mistake things were happening in this house which were, to say the least, interesting. He opened the door, and slid down the bannisters without noise. Once in the hall he waited, holding his breath. The dining-room door was open, and, faint as it was, he caught the sound of a living thing breathing.

Like a cat he stole across the intervening space, and carefully put his hand round the edge of the doorway. Inch by inch the fingers crept till they touched the switch. A flood of light illuminated the room, and showed a man standing on the hearth-rug, rigid. It was Eric Sanders. In his hand was a revolver. For a moment the two men gazed at each other without a word. A look of hate was on the face of Sanders.