It was the morning after the murder.
This was what he read.
89, Leveson Square,
London, W.“Dear Mr. Sinclair,
I am writing to you, but I have grave doubts whether this letter will ever reach you, and therefore, I am not telling you more than necessary. I am in the hands of one of the cleverest ruffians that this generation has produced. My life is in imminent danger if it is not already forfeited. There is not time for explanations.
Follow these instructions carefully.
Find my son who has disappeared for some years, but was last heard of in Monte Video. Tell him to look in the place where I hid my will in his presence, and he will find all the necessary documents to bring a great criminal to justice. I cannot be more specific. I am writing to you because I know you have done good service and are painstaking. Boyce is a fool. Sylvester Collins is a theorist who will be no help to you in this matter. Do not consult him. If I am dead when this reaches you, act as I have said. If nothing has happened, I rely on your honour to destroy this letter and I will send for you. I am very tired.
Yours faithfully,
James Watson.”
Sinclair sat long over this letter. What a vista of happenings did it conjure up. He was a plain man. Why did not Sir James write plainly, give the name of the criminal straight out and save further bother? Why all this mystery? What had happened in that grim library in the afternoon? Oh, bother it all, what a maze of evidence. If only it had been a straightforward murder, with plenty of blood and clues as in a detective story.
No; he would not tell Collins. He had something up his sleeve—well, let them both follow their own line.
He took a pen and paper, and put down his facts. Here was one thing cleared up. This was the letter which Sir James had posted himself, after his interview with the unknown man.
That, at any rate, corroborated the housekeeper’s evidence. Then the visitor had threatened his life; if not, why was the danger hanging over him so greatly that he dare not venture further than the post?
A message was brought in. It was a wire from Collins to say he was on the way to London. “Do nothing till I come,” it ended.
“That’s like his cheek,” said Sinclair to himself.
He put the letter carefully away in his pocket book, and took his hat and stick. “I am going to Leveson Square,” said he to the messenger. “There is no answer.”