Brick did not doubt the truth of this. A lump rose in his throat as he turned away from the door. He could scarcely repress the tears. Raikes was just putting away the last of the dishes. He glanced meaningly at Bogle. The latter opened the cupboard, and brought out a bottle of ink, a pen, some sheets of paper, a pack of envelopes, and arranged these things on the table.
Brick wondered what was coming next. He felt more curiosity than fear. He did not have long to wait.
Bogle drew a packet of letters from his pocket and held them up. They bore foreign stamps and postmarks.
“Do you recognize these?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Brick, in an aggressive tone. “You stole them out of my coat on the night of the tenth of December.”
His face flushed with anger as he remembered all that happened on that occasion.
“No impudence,” growled Bogle. “I won’t have it. I’m showing you these letters in order that you may see the uselessness of telling us any lies. We know who you are and all about you. You are the son of John Larkins, the wealthy contractor of New York.”
“Well, I don’t deny it,” replied Brick. “What’s that to you?”
“You will find out presently,” said Bogle, with a mocking smile. “I want a little information first. These letters were written to you by your father. The last one is dated at Mentone on the twenty-fourth of November. Is he still there?”
“Yes.”