“Yes. It was carefully hidden, but traces of murder are always difficult to hide.”
“Who searched? Who discovered it?”
“The police.”
“And they therefore obtained a warrant for me?”
I nodded. We walked slowly on, both silent and full of bitter thoughts. Now that I had convinced myself of his guilt I felt certain of the success of my next move.
Turning to him presently, I said: “I have a confession to make, Bethune. On the night of the tragedy I found that you had torn up and destroyed a number of letters before leaving, and among them I discovered one from a woman named Sybil. Now tell me frankly who and what she was. I have no wish that you should reveal to me anything regarding her relations with you that you desire to keep secret, but I merely ask you to act openly and tell me what you know of her.”
“I know nothing—nothing,” he answered, in a low tone.
“That’s a lie!” I exclaimed angrily. “She wrote to you on apparently the most intimate terms, yet you declare you are not acquainted with her.”
“Well, I was acquainted with her.”
“And with Sternroyd?”