The dark-bearded man, alert and businesslike, eyed her critically, and asked:
“You have those letters, I presume.”
“Certainly. I have them here,” was her reply, as she fumbled in the pocket of her black skirt. “I refused to call upon him, but he pressed me so much that I felt it imperative. He has been so very good to me that I feared to displease him.”
And she placed several letters upon Mr Cunnington’s desk.
“I see they are marked ‘private,’” he said, with a good deal of curiosity. “Have I your permission to glance at them?”
“Certainly,” was the cool reply. “You refuse to hear me, therefore I am compelled to give you proof.”
The man opened them one after the other, scanned them, and placed them aside. Statham’s refusal to answer the query upon the telephone was for him all-sufficient.
“You had better leave these letters with me, Miss Rolfe,” he said decisively, for he saw that at all hazards he must obtain that correspondence and hand it back to the writer.
“But—”
“There are no buts,” he exclaimed, quickly interrupting her. “Had Mr Statham desired you to remain in our service he would have replied to that effect. Come, you are wasting my time. Good morning.”