Neither of us spoke. Leaning back in his chair he watched the smoke from his cigarette curl upwards. Then he rose again, and said in a tone of voice very sad for me to hear:
“Well, don’t trouble to reply to that last query of mine, Frank, if it causes you pain. I was a fool to make it. Good-bye,” and he held forth his hand.
“Stay,” I urged, “I’ll explain it as well as I can, if you’ll have patience.”
I had made up my mind to tell Bob as much as I could of the mystery surrounding the dead man, and ask his assistance.
Silently and almost incredulously he listened to my statement, as I briefly ran over the events of the night I had spent with the stranger. When I had finished, he asked,—
“And did you leave the body there, and not utter a word to any one? That was scarcely like yourself, was it?”
“But what was I to do? I should have been mixed up in the scandal again; and the question arises, where would it have ended?”
“And did you not search that box for further proof of his assertion? There might have been valuable evidence there.”
“There might! What an idiot I must have been not to think of that at the time. Supposing there were letters from—from—”
“From the murderer? That is quite possible. Why not go and look at once?”