This evening, thought Anthony, as he stood facing her by the open windows of the drawing-room, Laura Hoode was even less prepossessing than she had seemed on the day before. She had risen at his entry, and though the thin, sharp-featured face was calm, he somehow felt her perturbation. She waved him to a chair. He sank into it, draping one long leg over its fellow. “What do you want of me, Mr. Gethryn?” The voice was lifeless as the woman, and Anthony shivered. The sexless always alarmed him. “A great deal, Miss Hoode.” In spite of his aversion his tone was blandly courteous. “I cannot imagine——” “Please—one moment,” said Anthony. “As you know, I came down here to Marling to find out, if possible, who killed your brother. A——” “That task,” said the woman, “has already been performed.” “Not quite, I think. In my opinion, young Deacon had no more to do with the murder than I. Each minute I spend in this house increases my certainty. This morning I found something I had been looking for, something that may throw a light where one is badly needed, something which you must tell me about.” She drew herself yet more upright on her straight-backed chair. “Mr. Gethryn,” she said, “I like neither your manner nor your manners.” “Unfortunately,” said Anthony grimly, “neither manner nor manners matter just now. Miss Hoode, I started on this business half out of boredom, half because a friend asked me to; but now—well, I’m going to finish it.” “But—but I don’t understand at all what you are talking about.” The woman was plainly bewildered, yet there seemed in her tone to be an uneasiness not born of bewilderment alone. Anthony took from his breast-pocket a thick packet of letters. The paper was a deep mauve, the envelopes covered with heavy, sprawling characters. The bundle was held together by a broad ribbon, this too of deep mauve. He balanced the little bundle in the palm of his hand; then looked up to see white rage on the bony, dull face of the woman. The rage, he thought, was not unmixed with fear; but not the kind of fear he had expected. “These,” he said, “are what I want you to explain. To explain, that is, who they are from, and why you took them from your brother’s desk and hid them again in your own room.” She rose to her feet; moved a step forward. “You—you——” she began, and choked on the words. Anthony stood up. “Oh, I know I’m a filthy spy. Don’t imagine that I think this private inquiry agent game is anything but noisome. It has been nasty, it will be nasty, and it is nasty, in spite of the cachet of Conan Doyle. I know, none better, that to rifle your room while you were at the inquest this morning was a filthy thing to do. I know that brow-beating you now is filthier—but I’m going to find out who killed your brother.” “It was that boy,” said the woman, white-lipped. She had fallen back into her chair.