"You can't prove nothing," he muttered.
"I am afraid that I must differ from you," Wingrave answered. "We will
see what the captain has to say."
He leaned forward in his chair, to attract the attention of a seaman.
Richardson interposed.
"All right," he said thickly. "Suppose I own up! What then?"
"A few questions--nothing terrifying. I am not very frightened of
you."
"Go on!"
"How did you become acquainted with the writer of that letter?"
Richardson hesitated.
"She came to a dancing class at Islington," he said.
Wingrave's face was expressionless, but his tone betrayed his
incredulity.
"A dancing class at Islington! Nonsense!"
"Mind," the young man asserted, "it was her mistress who put her up to
this! It was nothing to do with her. It was for her mistress's sake."
"Do you know the mistress?" Wingrave asked.
"No; I don't know her name even. Never heard it."
"Your letter, then, was from the maid?"
"Of course, it was," Richardson answered. "If you recognize the
writing, you must know that yourself."
Wingrave looked reflectively seaward. The matter was not entirely
clear to him. Yet he was sure that this young man was telling the
truth, so far as he could divine it.
"Well," he said, "you have made your attempt and failed. If fortune
had favored you, you might at this moment have been a murderer. I
might have warned you, by the bye, that I am an exceedingly hard man
to kill.
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