He went into the garden and to his old seat, and broke the seal of the letter.
It was short, and he read it twice, a puzzled look on his face. It ran:
“Dear Collins,
If you are expecting to find out anything in Devonshire, you are on a wild goose chase. Lewis has fled, and we have damning evidence against him. Come at once if you want to be in at the death. What’s your game, anyway?
Yours in haste,
A. Sinclair.”
“I must get back,” he muttered to himself. “Whatever is Sinclair after?”
A gong sounded within the house, and he slowly rose to his feet and went in. Miss Watson was waiting for him, and they sat down. She was lost in her own mournful thoughts, and would scarcely eat anything. She tried hard to rouse herself. Collins was a brilliant conversationalist, and had a charm of manner which few could resist. He set himself to interest her, not without success.
At the end of the meal he told her he must get back at once, and noticed that she gave a look almost of relief, though she tried to hide it.
“I am deeply grateful to you for coming down here, and for your offer of help,” she said.
“Not at all,” he answered. “I will go to your house and do anything I can in London. Of course, there will have to be an inquest, but we will spare you all we can.”
“We?” she said, in surprise. “Then you are mixed up in this?”
“Oh, there is no secret,” he said. “I am a barrister, as I told you, but I do a little in helping in an amateur way with these sort of cases. It is my hobby.”