CHAPTER XIII
A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE
“If any one calls, I am out,” cried Claude to his factotum, as he crossed the entrance-hall of his well-appointed flat, and flung open the door of his library.
“The guv’nor’s in a tantrum,” observed Smith to his wife, and he settled himself to renew the perusal of Grand National training reports. He had just noticed the interesting fact that last year’s winner had “jumped in for the last mile” in a gallop given to a rank outsider, when the electric bell upset his calculations.
“My master is out,” he said, as he opened the door to find Mr. White standing on the mat.
He was about to close the door again, but the detective planted his foot against the jamb.
“Your master is not out,” he answered. “I saw him come in a minute since. Tell him Mr. White wants to see him.”
Smith’s dignity was superb. “My master may be hin,” he cried, “but ’e told me to say ’e was hout to callers.” The aspirates supplied emphasis.
“Tell him what I say at once,” and Mr. White gave him his best “accessory-after-the-crime” glance.
“I don’t see why I should,” snarled Smith, but the squabble ended when Bruce’s voice was heard —
“Show him in, Smith, but admit nobody else.”
With an air of armed neutrality Smith ushered the representative of Scotland Yard into the library.
“You’re not looking very well, sir,” said White, his round eyes fixed on Bruce with all their power.
“Was it to ask about my health that you came?”
“No, sir, not exactly. But I haven’t seen you for quite a while, and as we are both interested in the same matter I thought I would look you up and compare notes.”
Bruce was annoyed by the interruption. He wanted to think, not to be bothered by official theories. He looked hard at Mr. White, wondering whether he should tell him all he knew and wash his own hands clear of the investigation in future. But there was a second picture before his eyes. He saw Phyllis Browne’s face, not as it was that day at the Tir aux Pigeons, but with the light of happiness in it, with the joyousness of requited and undisturbed love, with the glow reflected from dancing waves, and the tremulous smile of innocent pleasure.
It was hard to believe that such a woman could place her heartfelt trust in a man who was possibly a cold-blooded murderer. Such a combination was unnatural and horrible. Already Bruce was beginning to doubt the evidence of his analytical senses.
Mr. White meanwhile flattered himself by the thought that the other was trying to read his thoughts by looking at him fixedly.
“I have been away from home,” said Bruce at last. “I had occasion to go to the South of France.”
“I thought so. I was sure of it. How do you manage always to get ahead of us?” Mr. White was enthusiastic in his admiring divination.
“You have heard about Sydney H. Corbett?” said the barrister, still keeping that inscrutable, calculating gaze upon the policeman.
“Yes. I am on his track. We may be slow, but we are sure in Scotland Yard. May I ask what luck you have had, sir?”
“In what respect?”
“As if you didn’t go to Monte Carlo to find Corbett yourself! Really, Mr. Bruce, the scent is too hot this time. You might as well give a ‘View halloa’ if you have seen him.”
“Seen Sydney H. Corbett, you mean?”
“That is the gentleman.”
For an instant Mensmore’s future trembled in the balance. Bruce almost framed the words which would have led to his immediate arrest at the next port touched by the White Heather. But the memory of Phyllis Browne, of her agony, of the fearful scandal that must fly through Society on the Riviera, restrained him. There was no hurry. He must have time to think.
“I certainly went to Monte Carlo to discover the identity of that interesting personage, but I came back, Mr. White, as wise as I went. The only trace I found of him was an undelivered letter awaiting him at the Hotel du Cercle.”
“A letter! Wasn’t he there?” Mr. White’s face, notwithstanding its official decorum, betrayed its disappointment. This was an unlooked-for check.
“He had been there. Other letters came for him earlier, and he had received them.”
“But the hotel people – ”
“Did not know him. In fact, there cannot be the slightest doubt that Mr. Corbett concealed his identity at Monte Carlo under another name.”
“It doesn’t matter much,” growled the detective. “We will nab him all the same, if he had fifty names.”
“Possibly. But it is wonderful how a man may be under your very nose, and yet you may miss him.”
During the next few minutes neither man spoke. Bruce smiled cynically at the thought that he was actually shielding Lady Alice’s probable slayer from the minions of the law. He marvelled at himself for his irresolution. Nevertheless, he would wait. Mensmore could not escape him now. Perhaps the business might be managed without the dramatic features which would accompany an immediate arrest. And there were some things that required explanation. If his Monte Carlo acquaintance really killed Lady Dyke, then he was the strangest criminal whom Bruce had ever encountered during the course of his varied career.
The policeman misinterpreted his expression.
“You can’t laugh at us this time, Mr. Bruce,” he cried. “Scotland Yard and yourself evolved the same theory, eh? And we can’t fly off to the South of France as readily as you.”
“Your skill is profound, no doubt. Indeed, I wonder at it, considering the mysterious way in which the missing man left his address at the post-office.”
The other reddened. “That was simple enough, I know; but we were on his track before that.”
“By watching me when I visited his sister.”
“You saw me outside the Jollity Theatre, then?”
“Of course. What did you expect?”
Mr. White recovered his placidity. “There’s no use quarrelling about it,” he laughed. “I did get that wrinkle from you. But how on earth were we to know what to do, when there were seventy-one flats occupied by respectable people, and one closed for months, the caretaker told us.”
“I hope you have ceased your surveillance so far as I am concerned.”
“Honor bright, sir. I won’t do it again. Besides, we must lay hands on Corbett sooner or later.”
“What steps are you taking?”
“The Monte Carlo police are making inquiries. They have his description. It has also gone to America.”
“Why America?”
“Because he spent some time there. He only returned from the States early last year. His sister has not seen him for years, and a rare old row they had when he turned up. He had not much money, so she helped him, and he settled down for a time in the same mansions as herself.”
“Who told you all this?”
“Mrs. Hillmer, and a precious lot of trouble she gave me. She is a clever woman that.”
“It was rather too bad to pester her about it, poor lady.”
“I only followed your lead, sir.”
This was so true that Claude changed the conversation.
“What sort of man is Corbett? Have you his description?”
“Yes. Here it is.” Mr. White produced a copy of the Police Gazette, a publication never seen by the public, but of a large circulation among the police of the United Kingdom. The details were fairly accurate as to Mensmore’s personal appearance, but there was no photograph. Oddly enough, Bruce was pleased on noting this serious deficiency.
“You did not secure his picture?”
“No. Mrs. Hillmer declared that she had not a single photograph of her brother in her possession.”
“Did she – tell you his real name?” the barrister had almost said, but he deflected the question. “Did she give you any hint as to a possible cause for this apparently unnecessary crime?”
“Not a word.”
“Then you did not mention Lady Dyke to her?”
“No. Sir Charles has always implored me to keep his wife’s name out of my inquiries until it became absolutely impossible to conceal it in view of a public prosecution. He wants to know definitely when that time comes.”
“Why?”
The detective did not reply for a moment. When he spoke he leaned forward and subdued his voice. “I am as sure as I am sitting here, sir, that Sir Charles will not live if any disgrace should come to be attached to his wife’s memory.”
“Do you mean that he will kill himself?”
“I do. He has changed a great deal since this affair happened. He is not the same man. He appears to be always mooning about her. And people say that they were not so devoted to one another when she was alive.”
Again did the barrister switch off their talk from an unpleasant topic.
“This description of Corbett is not much use,” he said. “It applies to every athletic young Englishman of good physique and gentlemanly appearance.”
“Quite true. I don’t depend on that for his arrest, but it will be valuable for identification. ‘Blue eyes, light brown hair, fresh, clear complexion, well-modelled nose and chin.’ Some of these things can be changed by tricks, but not all. For instance, there would be no use in smoking a man with black eyes and irregular features.”
“‘Smoking’ him?”
“Oh, that’s our way of putting it. Following him, it means.”
“Suppose the French police don’t succeed in catching him?”
“We will get him at Raleigh Mansions. He is sure to think that Lady Dyke’s fate has never been determined, and he will return when the inquiry has blown over, to all appearance.”
“You have quite made up your mind, then, that Sydney H. Corbett is the murderer?”
“It looks uncommonly like it. At any rate, he knows something about it. If not, why did he bolt to France two days after the crime? Why has he concealed his identity? Why does he take pains to receive his correspondence in the manner he has adopted? And, by Jove! suppose he isn’t in Monte Carlo at all, but in London all the time!”
The inspector glowed with his sudden inspiration, but Bruce kept him to the lower level of realities.
“Corbett is, or was, in Monte Carlo. Of that you may be sure. He, and none other, got the letters sent to the Hotel du Cercle. I cannot for the life of me imagine why he did not take the last one. But let us look at what we know. Lady Dyke, we will say, went to Corbett’s chambers, secretly and of her own accord. That may be taken as fairly established. Thence there is a blank in our intelligence until she appears as a hardly recognizable corpse, stuffed by hands beneath an old drain-pipe in the Thames at Putney. How do you fill up that gap, Mr. White?”
“Simply enough. Corbett, or some other person, persuaded her to voluntarily accompany him to Putney. She was killed there, and not in London. It would be almost a matter of impossibility for any man to have conveyed her lifeless body from Raleigh Mansions to Putney without attracting some notice. One man could not do it. Several might, but it is madness to imagine that a number of people would join together for the purpose of killing this poor lady.”
“The seemingly impossible is often accomplished.”
“Do you really believe, then, that she met her death in London?”
“I have quite an open mind on the question.”
“You forget that she had resolved early that day to visit her sister at Richmond, and Putney is on the direct road. What more reasonable than to assume – ”
“Beware of assumptions! You are assuming all the time that Corbett was a principal in her murder.”
“Very well, Mr. Bruce. Then I ask you straight out if you don’t agree with me?”
“I do not.”
This declaration astounded the barrister himself. Often the mere utterance of one’s thoughts is a surprise. Speech seems to stiffen the wavering outlines of reflection, and the new creation may differ essentially from its embryo. It was so with Bruce in this instance.
Ever since Mr. White’s arrival had aroused him from the positive stupor caused by the stock-broker’s unwitting revelation, Claude Bruce had been slowly but definitely deciding that Mensmore did not kill Lady Dyke. He had seen him, unprepared, facing death as preferable to dishonor. At such moments a man’s soul is laid bare. With the shadow of a crime upon his conscience Mensmore’s actions could not have been so genuine and straightforward as they undoubtedly were.
Mensmore, of course, might in some way be bound up with the mystery surrounding Lady Dyke’s movements. His very utterance in Bruce’s room at the Hotel du Cercle implied as much. That was another matter. It would receive his (Bruce’s) most earnest attention. But the major hypothesis, so quickly jumped at by the police, needed much more substantiation than it had yet obtained.
That it was plausible was demonstrated by the barrister’s readiness to adopt it at the outset. Even now that his impulse to fasten the crime on Mensmore had weakened he wondered at his eagerness to defend him.
The detective was even more surprised.
“I don’t see how you can take that view,” he cried. “Corbett’s behavior is, to say the least, unaccountable. If he is an innocent man, then he must be a foolish one. Besides, why should he necessarily be innocent? This is the first gleam of light we have had in a very dark business, and I mean to follow it up.”
The vindictive emphasis of his tone showed that the detective was annoyed at the other’s impassive attitude. He even went so far as to dimly evolve a theory that the barrister wished to throw him off Corbett’s trail on account of his sympathy for Mrs. Hillmer, but Claude rapidly dispelled this notion.
“You are here, I suppose, to ask my advice in pursuance of our understanding that we are working together in the matter, as it were?” he said.
“Well, something of the kind, sir.”
“Then I recommend that we see the inside of that closed flat in Raleigh Mansions at the earliest moment.”
“Do you mean by a search warrant?”
“Certainly not. Do you want the whole neighborhood to know of it? You have probably heard of locks being picked before to-day. You and I, and none other, must have a quiet look around the place without anyone being the wiser.”
Mr. White hesitated, but the prospect was attractive. “I think I can manage it,” he said, smiling reflectively. “Will six this evening suit?”
“Admirably.”
“Then I will call for you.”
After a parting glance at Smith, who returned it, nose in air, the inspector ran down the stairs, murmuring, “Blest if I can understand Mr. Bruce. But this is a good move. We may learn something.”
CHAPTER XIV
NO 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS
When the door of Corbett’s or Mensmore’s flat swung open before the skilful application of a skeleton key, a gust of cold air swept from the interior blackness, and whirled an accumulation of dust down the stairs.
It is curious how a disused house seems to bottle up, as it were, an atmospheric accumulation which always seeks to escape at the first available moment. Emptiness is more than a mere word; it has life and the power of growth. A residence closed for a week is less depressing than if it has not been inhabited for a month. If the period of neglect be lengthened into a year, the sense of dreariness is magnified immeasurably.
In this instance, the mysterious abode might have been the abiding-place of disembodied spirits, so cold was its aspect, so uninviting the dim vista that sprung into uncertain vision under the flickering rays of a wax vesta struck by the detectives.
But neither the policeman nor his companion was a nervous subject.
They entered at once, closed the door by its latch, and, aided by other matches, found the switch of the electric light.
In this brighter radiance the indefinable vanished. The flat became a cosy, fairly well appointed bachelor’s “diggings,” neglected and untidy, yet not without a semblance of comfort, which only needed the presence of a sturdy housemaid and a fire to be converted into the ordinary chambers with which the locality abounds.
Their first care was to draw down all the blinds, the neglect of which housewifely proceeding argued the careless departure of a mere male when the place was vacated.
A rapid preliminary survey followed, and drew from Bruce the remark:
“Furnished by a woman, but occupied by a man.”
Mr. White agreed, but he didn’t know why, so he put a tentative question on the point.
“Don’t you see,” said Bruce, “that the carpets match the upholstery of the furniture, that the beds have valances, that the spare bedroom for a guest is even more elaborate than that used by the tenant, that care has been taken in fitting up the kitchen, and taste displayed in the selection of pieces of bric-a-brac? Only a woman attends to these things. On the other hand, a card tray has been used as a receptacle for a cigar ash, the pictures – no woman ever buys a picture – have been picked up promiscuously from shops where they sell sporting prints, and the sides of the mantelpieces are chipped by having feet propped against them. There are plenty of other signs, but these suffice.”
Thenceforth the two men devoted themselves to their task, each after his kind.
The representative of Scotland Yard hunted for documents, photographs, torn envelopes; he looked at the covers of books to see if they were inscribed; he opened every drawer, ransacked every corner, peered into the interior of jars, pots, and ovens; appraised the value of furniture, noted its age, and was specially zealous in studying the appearance of the only bedroom which had been occupied so far as he could judge.
Bruce, having given a casual glance around, entered the sitting-room, selected the most comfortable chair, and proceeded to envelope himself in smoke.
He had not spent two minutes in Mensmore’s flat before he made a striking discovery.
The dwelling consisted of a central passage, dividing two equal portions from the other. That on the right contained a drawing-room and a large bedroom, with dressing-room attached. On the left were another bedroom, a dining-room, a kitchen, and a store-room. At the end of the passage, which terminated in the transverse corridor, were the bathroom, a pantry, and a small room, empty now, but apparently designed for a servant’s bedroom.
The furniture, as has been stated, was good in quality and sufficient for its purposes. But the fact which immediately impressed this skilled observer was that the arrangement of the sitting-room differed essentially from the other details of the flat.
The same care had not been taken in the disposition of the articles. They had been dumped down anyhow, without taste or regard for suitable position. The carpet had not been bought for this special apartment like the carpets elsewhere. A handsome ebony cabinet stood in the wrong place. The blue china ornaments obviously intended to fill its shelves were littered about the mantelpiece or on small tables, while the Satsuma ware meant for the over-mantel was stiffly disposed on the cabinet.
Small matters these, but Bruce thought them more fruitful of accurate theory than the detective’s hunt for a written history of the crime!
So, as he smoked, he mused and examined.
“The drawing-room was the last place to be furnished,” he thought. “The usual course. It remained empty for some time probably. The rest of the flat was arranged by a woman – Mrs. Hillmer in all likelihood – before the arrival of her brother. Then he came and tackled the vacant room. The history of the place is as plain as though I were present. More than that, a woman – Mrs. Hillmer again, let us say – fixed upon these latter purchases, but without measurements. She did not personally see to their adaptability, and she certainly did not supervise their final arrangement. Now, why was that? Again, these things are more worn than those in the other rooms. Were they bought second-hand? If so, why? A woman thinks most of her drawing-room. It is the last place in which she would economize.”
Mr. White entered, anxious and puzzled.
“Found anything?” inquired Claude, without looking at him.
“Not a rag, not a piece of old newspaper with a date on it. A lot of papers were burned in the kitchen grate, but from the remnants I judge that they were mostly bills.”
“The place has been systematically cleared, eh?”
“It looks like it.”
“Going to hunt here?”
“Yes. You don’t seem to take much interest in the premises, Mr. Bruce, though you persuaded me to do a bit of house-breaking in order to get here.”
“I find the quietude good for thought, Mr. White. Be good enough not to make more noise than is absolutely necessary.”
The other sniffed. He was disappointed. He hoped for something tangible from this visit, and the outlook was far from promising.
“This room appears to have been lived in a good deal,” he growled.
“That is one way of looking at it.”
“Is there any other way?” His voice snapped out the question as if he held the barrister personally responsible for his failure to gain a clue.
“No, Mr. White, I should have guessed your point of view exactly.”
“My point of view, indeed! Do you want me to draw up another chair and light a pipe? Should we be enlightened by tobacco smoke?”
“I cannot trust your tobacco. Try a cigar.”
The detective angrily thumped a Chesterfield lounge to see if it betrayed aught suspicious.
At that instant Bruce’s glance rested on the fireplace. The grate contained the ashes of a fire, – a fire not long lighted. This, combined with the undrawn blinds, argued a departure early in the morning.
“He went to Monte Carlo by the day Channel service,” mused Bruce. “He may have departed a few hours after Lady Dyke’s death, as Mrs. Hillmer was not certain as to the exact date.”
Somehow the few cinders attracted him. They had, perchance, witnessed a tragedy.
Suddenly he stopped smoking. He was so startled by something he had seen that the policeman must have noticed his agitation were not the detective at that instant intently screwing his eyes to peer behind the back of the elaborate cabinet.
On the hearth was a handsome Venetian fender. Into each end was loosely socketed a beautifully moulded piece of ironwork to hold the fire-irons. That on the left was whole, but from that on the right a small spike had been broken off.
By comparison with its fellow the missing portion was identical with the bit of iron found imbedded in the skull of the murdered woman. Of this damning fact Bruce had no manner of doubt, though the incriminatory article itself was then locked in a drawer in his own residence.
He did not move. He sat as one transfixed.
What a weapon for such a deed! Was ever more outlandish instrument used with murderous intent? The entire bracket could easily be detached from the fender, and would, no doubt, inflict a terrible blow. But why seize this clumsy device when it actually supported a heavy brass poker?
The thing savored of madness, of the wild vagary of a homicidal maniac. It was incomprehensible, strange beyond belief.
Yet as Bruce pictured the final scene in that tragedy, as he saw the ill-fated lady stagger helplessly to the ground before a treacherous and crushing stroke, a fierce light leaped into his face, and his lips set tight with unflinching purpose.
Had Mensmore been within reach at that moment he would assuredly have been lodged in a felon’s cell forthwith. No excuse, no palliation, would be accepted. The man who could so foully slay a gentle, kindly, high-minded woman deserved the utmost rigor of the law, no matter what the circumstances that led to the commission of the crime.
It was not often that Bruce allowed impulse to master reason so utterly.
In strange altruistic mood he asked himself why he did not spring from his chair, and, tearing the bracket from its supports, exhibit it to his fellow-worker, while he gave, in a few passionate sentences, the information that would set the French police to scour the Mediterranean littoral until they found the White Heather. Of what matter to him was the suffering of a sister or sweetheart? Did the man who killed Lady Dyke reck of these things? Yes, he would do it —
But a cry of triumph from the detective arrested the fateful words even as they trembled on his lips. “Here’s a find!” was the shout. “Thinking is all very well, Mr. Bruce, but hard work is better. What do you make of that?”
“That” was a letter, which, in the manner known to many a puzzled householder, had slipped down behind a drawer in the cabinet, to be crushed against the wardrobe at the back, and lie there forgotten and unnoticed.
Even in his perturbed state the barrister could not help glancing at the crumpled document, first noting the date, October 15th of the year just closed, with the superscription, “Mountain Butts, Wyoming.” There was no envelope.
It was addressed to “Dear Bertie,” and ran as follows:
“Your welcome note and its draft for fifty dollars came to hand last week. My sisters and I can never forget your generosity. We know you are hard up, and that you can ill spare these frequent gifts, or loans, as you are pleased to call them. You and I have been in many a tight place, old chap, and I never knew you to fail either with hand or heart. And when we drifted into this ranch, on my advice, and nearly starved to death, it was you who were bold enough to cut yourself adrift so that you might make something to keep the pot boiling.
“But the tide is turning. You know my failing; this time I will try not to be too sanguine. There have been big gold discoveries in this country. It is now firmly believed that all our land is auriferous, and the scoundrel who sold us this beggarly ranch has tried to upset our title. Thanks to your foresight, he was knocked out at the first round. So I may soon have big news for you. By Jove, won’t it be a change if we both become rich! And won’t we all have a time in Paris! However, I must not promise too much. I have been taught caution by repeated failures. Write by return, and say if this reaches you all right.
“Your faithful friend,“Sydney H. Corbett.”
“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, when Bruce had slowly mastered the contents of the letter.
“Think! I am too dazed to think.”
“We can now learn all about him from America.”
“About whom?”
“About Corbett, of course.”
“Then did Corbett travel by the same mail as this letter in order to murder Lady Dyke? It is dated October 15th, and she was killed November 6th. It takes twelve days, at the quickest, for a letter to come here from Wyoming. And Corbett, the writer of it, not the receiver, must have travelled in the same steamer, or its immediate successor.”
Mr. White’s face fell, but he stuck to his point:
“Anyhow, Corbett was here about that time. I have seen the secretary to the company that owns these flats. Corbett took the rooms for six months from September first. When asked for references he gave his sister’s name, and as she banks with the National – and she has always paid her rent for five years – it was good enough. Still, I must confess that Corbett could hardly be in Wyoming in October if he lived here in September and in November.”
The barrister answered between his set teeth: “Yes, it is rather puzzling.”
“Perhaps the letter was left there as a plant.”
“An elaborate one. It must have been conceived a month before the murder.”
“But suppose it never came from Wyoming. We have no proof that it was written in America.”
“We have proof of nothing at present.”
“Well, Mr. Bruce, have you a theory? This is the place where you ought to shine, you know.”
“I have no theory. I must think for hours, for days, before I see my way clear.”
“Clear to what, sir.”
“To telling you how, when, and where to arrest the murderer of Lady Dyke.”
“So this find of mine is of great importance?”
“Undoubtedly. I remember its contents sufficiently, but you will let me see it again if necessary?”
“With pleasure, sir. And that reminds me. You never returned that small bit of iron to me. You recollect I lent it to you some time since.”
“Perfectly. Come with me. I will model it in wax and give it to you.”
“All right, sir; but as we are here I may as well continue my search. I may drop on something else of value.”
Bruce resumed his seat, and did not stir until the detective had completely rummaged the cabinet. The reading of that queer epistle from Corbett to “Bertie” – from the real Simon Pure to the sham one – from one man to his double – had stopped him at the very threshold of disclosure.
The document impressed him as being genuine. If so, who on earth was Corbett, and why had Mensmore taken his name, if that was the solution of the tangle?
Whatever the explanation, he would not jump to a conclusion. The web had closed too securely round Mensmore to allow of escape. Hence, Bruce could bide his time. Another week might solve many elements in the case now indistinct and nebulous. He would wait.
The detective finally satisfied himself there was nothing else in the cabinet. He approached the fireplace, peered into every vase on the over-mantel, picked with his penknife at the back of the frame to feel for other letters, and in doing so several times kicked the fender.
The barrister vaguely wondered whether the man of method would note the missing portion of the iron “dog.”
“Surely,” he thought, “he will see it now,” as Mr. White bent to examine the ashes, and actually took the poker from the very support itself in order to rake among the cinders.
The other even scrutinized the fire-irons, but the too obvious fact that, so to speak, stared him in the face, escaped notice. He was quite wrapped up in his theory that Lady Dyke had been killed at Putney, and not in Sloane Square.
At last he quitted the room, and walked off to the small apartments at the end of the main corridor.
Instantly Bruce sprang forward, fell on his knees, and intently examined the iron rest with a strong lens. It bore no unusual signs in the locality of the break. Taking some wax from his pocket, he took a slight impression of the fracture.
When Mr. White returned, he found the barrister sitting in his chair, still smoking, and with set face and fixed eyes.
Soon afterwards they quitted the flat, carefully leaving all things as they found them. They said little on their way to Victoria Street, for Bruce was trying to explain Mensmore’s attitude at Monte Carlo, and the detective was considering the best use to which he could put that all-important letter.
Besides, Mr. White attributed his companion’s silence to annoyance. Had not he, White, laid hands on the only direct piece of evidence yet discovered as to Corbett’s identity, and this in defiance of Bruce’s spoken philosophy? He could afford to be generous and not to worry his amateur colleague with questions.