I hesitated. The only person I suspected was Edith, who had been the solitary occupant of that room while she waited for me. It was after her departure that I found the drawer in confusion and the letter missing.
“I have suspicion,” I replied with some hesitation, “yet I feel assured it is unfounded.”
“Of whom?”
“Of a friend.”
“A friend of yours?” she exclaimed quickly. “Therefore, an enemy of mine. It is a woman. Come, admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” I answered with a forced smile, my diplomatic instinct instantly asserting itself.
“Is it a woman, or is it not?” she demanded.
“I am not compelled to answer that question, Léonie,” I remarked in a quiet voice.
“But having betrayed me—or rather having allowed me to be betrayed—it is surely only manly of you to endeavour to make amends!” she cried reproachfully. “Even if you do not love me sufficiently to make me your wife, that is hardly a reason why you should expose me to my enemies.”
“I have not done so wilfully,” I declared. “As the letter has been stolen by an enemy, I feel sure that the suspicion resting upon my friend is unfounded.”