“You’ve been letting this thing prey on your mind, I expect, a good deal?”
Sinclair stiffened. “Do you mean that I have been imagining things?” he said.
“It is a most entertaining exhibition of deduction,” said Allery.
“Of course, I have not had time to tell you all,” said Sinclair, “and it may never come out.”
“It is a wicked lie,” said Mabel. “I will never believe it.” Her eyes were blazing.
“I am sorry, Miss Watson,” stammered Sinclair.
“I am going to lie down, Mr. Allery,” said she, and walked from the room ignoring Sinclair.
Chapter XVII.
The Wrong Letter
In the stillness of the night the sound of a car was heard. Sinclair went to the door and waited.
Out of the blackness the car emerged, and came to rest at the door. From the inside issued Sanders. His face was set and grim. Without a word he walked into the house, and into the dining-room. Allery was sitting where he had sat immovable all the evening. Sanders took off his great coat, and took out his revolver and tossed it on the table.