“Most decidedly I do. I had not seen him for quite a week prior to the tragedy.”
“Then would it surprise you very much to know that, an hour after calling on you in Bond Street, he wrote to the man who is now suspected of the crime, telling him the details of that interview—”
“The details?” he echoed, amazed.
“Yes, the details,” I repeated. “They were given very minutely regarding Mariette Lestrade and her relations with you, your efforts to preserve your secret, and your threats of violence should he divulge anything to prejudice you in the eyes of Lord Isleworth.”
“Absurd. No such letter was ever written.”
“It was,” I replied, and drawing slowly from my pocket a piece of folded paper, I added, “Its original still exists, and I have a copy here.”
“The—the dead man—wrote it?” he gasped, turning ashen pale.
“Yes. It will prove interesting reading at the trial. Glance at it for yourself.”
Taking the sheet of paper, he held it to the lamp with trembling fingers. As he eagerly devoured its contents, his eyes seemed starting from his head, so wildly did he glare at it. For several moments he stood, supporting himself by the back of his chair.
“A denunciation from the grave,” I said. “It makes your motive plain, and shows your crime was premeditated. When your rival left England, the circumstantial evidence was strongly against him, and though innocent, he was unable to prove an alibi, but that letter will render the discovery of the murderer an easy task.”