“Then why did this woman—what’s her name?—Ella Laing,” he said, referring to the letter, “why did she allege foul play?”
“I cannot tell; but all the facts I have ascertained point to the same conclusion, although the medical evidence negatived any such suggestion.”
“Then what is your contention?”
“That the man who was my friend was a spy,” I said.
“You would shift the responsibility upon one who, being dead, can tell us nothing,” he said in a tone of reproachful contempt. “I suspected this. It was but what might have been expected.”
“But I have evidence indisputable that he was a spy,” I exclaimed excitedly. “Read this,” and I handed to him Dudley’s passport.
Spreading it out before him, he carefully adjusted his gold pince-nez, and after a little difficulty translated it. Then, without expressing any surprise, he turned it over and held the paper to the light of the window, examining the water-mark.
“Well,” he exclaimed calmly at last, “what else?”
I placed before him the crumpled sheets of foolscap whereon attempts had been made—and successfully too—to imitate my handwriting, explaining where I had discovered them. These he also examined very minutely, giving vent to a low grunt, as was habitual to him when reassured.
“Anything more?” he asked impatiently. “I can’t waste time. The outlook is too serious.”