“I saw him in London about a month ago,” I remarked, in order to sustain the fiction.
How I longed to open that letter that lay so tantalisingly before me. But what could I do? Such a thing was not to be thought of. Therefore, I had to watch the woman gather the correspondence together and replace them in the cupboard.
I rose and thanked her, saying,—
“I’m delighted to think that Charlie will escape a very disagreeable affair. It’s fortunate he wasn’t here to receive that letter.”
“And I’m glad, too. When he returns I’ll tell him how you came here, and what you said. What name shall I give him?”
“Williams—Harry Williams,” I answered. “He will know.”
Then as I walked round to the window I examined the room quickly, but to my disappointment saw that there were no photographs. He might, I thought, keep the portraits of some of his friends upon the mantelshelf, as so many men do. Was this Denton one of the conspirators, I wondered? His absence without an address for four months caused me to suspect that he was.
Just as I had given her my assumed name, somebody knocked at the door, and she went to open it.
Next instant a thought flashed across to me. Should I take that letter? It was a theft—that I recognised, yet was it not in the interests of justice? By that communication I might be able to establish the dead man’s identity.
There was not a second to lose. I decided at once. I heard the woman open the door and speak to someone, then swift as thought I opened the cupboard, glanced at the packet of letters, and with quickly-beating heart took the one which bore the Blandford post-mark.