“It’s no use thinking you’re going to step into a dead woman’s shoes. The whole town is laughing at you. Get out now. Soon it will be too late. This is a warning. Remember what happened to that other girl. Get out and stay out.”

It finished with some mildly obscene language.

“That reached Miss Holland this morning,” said Nash.

“Thought it was funny she hadn’t had one before,” said Sergeant Parkins.

“Who wrote it?” I asked.

Some of the exultation faded out of Nash’s face.

He looked tired and concerned. He said soberly:

“I’m sorry about it, because it will hit a decent man hard, but there it is. Perhaps he’s had his suspicions already.”

“Who wrote it?” I reiterated.

“Miss Aimée Griffith.”

II

Nash and Parkins went to the Griffiths’ house that afternoon with a warrant.

By Nash’s invitation I went with them.

“The doctor,” he said, “is very fond of you. He hasn’t many friends in this place. I think if it is not too painful to you, Mr. Burton, that you might help him to bear up under the shock.”

I said I would come. I didn’t relish the job, but I thought I might be some good.

We rang the bell and asked for Miss Griffith and we were shown into the drawing room. Elsie Holland, Megan and Symmington were there having tea.

Nash behaved very circumspectly.

He asked Aimée if he might have a few words with her privately.

She got up and came towards us. I thought I saw just a faint hunted look in her eye. If so, it went again. She was perfectly normal and hearty.

“Want me? Not in trouble over my car lights again, I hope?”

She led the way out of the drawing room and across the hall into a small study.

As I closed the drawing room door, I saw Symmington’s head jerk up sharply. I supposed his legal training had brought him in contact with police cases, and he had recognized something in Nash’s manner. He half rose.

That is all I saw before I shut the door and followed the others.

Nash was saying his piece. He was very quiet and correct. He cautioned her and then told her that he must ask her to accompany him. He had a warrant for her arrest and he read out the charge—

I forget now the exact legal term. It was the letters, not murder yet.

Aimée Griffith flung up her head and bayed with laughter. She boomed out: “What ridiculous nonsense! As though I’d write a packet of indecent stuff like that. You must be mad. I’ve never written a word of the kind.”

Nash had produced the letter to Elsie Holland. He said:

“Do you deny having written this, Miss Griffith?”

If she hesitated it was only for a split second.