“Of course. But you can’t read it without the key,” he declared with a defiant laugh.
“I desire no assistance,” I said briefly.
“But if I mistake not, Mr Woodhouse, you entertain affection towards Lady Lolita—and—well, your affection is reciprocated—at least so she tells me,” he added with a slight sneer, I thought.
“And what, pray, does that concern the paper found in the dead man’s pocket?” I inquired resentfully. “I know rather more of the affair than you conjecture,” I added. “And as you wish me to speak plainly I may as well remark that I have certainly no confidence in the person who is guest in this house under the name of Smeeton, and whose real name is Richard Keene.”
The man drew back with a start and stood glaring at me blankly, open-mouthed, his eyes starting from his head.
I smiled when I saw the effect upon him of my sudden accusation.
But next moment my smile of triumph died from my lips, and I it was who stood bewildered.