“There seems something in Thorpe’s theory regarding that fellow Short, after all.”
“If he has really absconded, it is an admission of guilt,” I remarked.
“Most certainly,” he replied. “It’s a suspicious circumstance, in any case, that he did not remain until the conclusion of the inquiry.”
We pulled the chest of drawers, a beautiful piece of old Sheraton, away from the door of the safe, and before placing the key in the lock my companion examined the exterior minutely. The key was partly rusted, and appeared as though it had not been used for many months.
Could it be that the assassin was in search of that key and had been unsuccessful?
He showed me the artful manner in which it had been concealed. The small hardy fern had been rooted up and stuck back again heedlessly into its pot. Certainly no one would ever have thought to search for a safe-key there. The dampness of the mould had caused the rust, hence before we could open the iron door we were compelled to oil the key with some brilliantine which was discovered on the dead man’s dressing table.
The interior, we found, was a kind of small strong-room—built of fire-brick, and lined with steel. It was filled with papers of all kinds neatly arranged.
We drew up a table, and the first packet my friend handed out was a substantial one of five pound notes, secured by an elastic band, beneath which was a slip on which the amount was pencilled. Securities of various sorts followed, and then large packets of parchment deeds which, on examination, we found related to his Devonshire property and his farms in Canada.
“Here’s something!” cried Ambler at length, tossing across to me a small packet methodically tied with pink tape. “The old boy’s love-letters—by the look of them.”
I undid the loop eagerly, and opened the first letter. It was in a feminine hand, and proved a curious, almost unintelligible communication.