"
"And what became of the letter you wrote to Sir Horace Fewbanks at
Craigleith Hall, asking him to come to London and save you from your
husband's persecutions?"
She looked at him earnestly in the endeavour to ascertain if he had laid
a trap for her.
"Sir Horace destroyed it in Scotland, I suppose, if the police did
not find it."
"Strange that he should have kept all your other letters so carefully and
destroyed that one. Perhaps it was in his pocket-book that was stolen."
"I do not know. What does it matter? It has gone." She shrugged her
shoulders lightly and indifferently.
"Do you know who stole the pocket-book?"
"No, monsieur. I thought it was stolen in the train."
"That is the police theory," replied Crewe. "But let that go. Have you,
since the night of the murder, seen anything of Pierre?"
"Monsieur, I have not. It is as though the earth has him swallowed. He
keeps silent with the silence of the grave."
"He is wise to do so," responded Crewe. "Now, mademoiselle, I have no
more questions to ask you. Your confidence is safe; you need be under no
apprehensions on that score."
"I care not for myself, Monsieur Crewe, so long as Madame Holymead is
freed from the persecutions of the police agents," replied Gabrielle,
rising from her seat as she spoke.
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