“Shall I tell you, Mr Woodhouse?” he asked with a mysterious smile, bending earnestly towards me and lowering his voice. “Well, my own opinion is that you yourself know more about it than any one.”
“Me!” I cried, looking at the fellow. “You don’t imply that I’m guilty of the murder, do you?”
“Oh!—not at all—not at all?” he hastened to assure me. “I intended to convey that you are in possession of certain facts unknown to the police. Do you understand me?”
“Not exactly,” I replied. “If you suggest that I know the dead man’s real name, then I admit it. His name was Wingfield—Hugh Wingfield.”
“What!” he gasped, his sinister countenance turning pale, as he stood aghast. “You know that! Who told you?”
“I found out for myself,” I answered, looking him full in the face. “I discovered it by the same means as I discovered other things—that the dead man wore on his finger the portrait of Lady Lolita, and—”
“And what else?” he asked breathlessly. “Be frank with me as I will, in a moment, be frank with you. Did you discover anything in his pockets—any letter—or anything written in numbers—a cipher?”
“I did.”
“Then show it to me,” he urged quickly. “Let me see it.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort!” was my firm response. “What is written there is my own affair.”