“Because there is one point which I wish to clear up,” I said. “I thought you told me that they were in a sealed envelope?”
“So they were. But when I heard of Marya’s exile, and that Luba had been sent with her, I broke open the seal and investigated the contents.”
“And what did you find?”
“Ah! That is my business, Uncle Colin. I have already told you that I absolutely refuse to betray the secrets of my poor dear friend. You surely ought not to ask me. You have no right to press me to commit such a breach of trust.”
“I ask you because so much depends upon the extent of your knowledge,” I said. “I have already solved the secret of the disappearance of the letters from the place where you hid them in the palace.”
“Then you know who stole them!” she gasped, starting to her feet. “Tell me. Who was the thief?”
“A man whom you do not know. He has confessed to me. He was not a willing thief, but a wretched assassin, whom General Markoff holds as his catspaw, and compels to perform his dirty work.”
“Then the General has secured them! My suspicions are confirmed!” she gasped, all the colour dying from her beautiful face.
“He has. The theft was committed under compulsion, and at imminent risk to the thief, who most certainly would have been shot by the sentries, if discovered. The letters were handed by him back to General Markoff.”
My words held her dumbfounded for a few seconds. She did not speak. Then she said in a hard, changed tone: