The widow, now quite pale, and looking years older, sat up on the couch
with a painful effort, which suggested old age.
"I don't understand," she said, trying to speak calmly. "I was not in
London, and I did not post any letter. If you came here to insult me--"
"There can be no insult in asking a few questions," said Random,
throwing aside his stiffness and speaking decisively. "I received
this letter, which bears a London postmark, by the mid-day post. The
handwriting is disguised, and there is neither address nor signature nor
date. You manufactured your communication very cleverly, Mrs. Jasher,
but you forgot that the Chinese perfume might betray you."
"The perfume! the perfume!" Mrs. Jasher gasped and saw in a moment how
the late conversation had led her to fall into a trap.
"The letter retains traces of the perfume you use," went on the baronet
relentlessly. "I have a remarkably keen sense of smell, and, as scent is
a most powerful aid to memory, I speedily recollected that you used this
especial perfume. You told me a few moments ago that no one else
used it, and so you have proved the truth of my statement that this
letter"--he tapped it--"is written by you."
"It's a lie--a mistake," stuttered Mrs. Jasher, now at bay and looking
dangerous. Her society veneer was stripped off, and the adventuress pure
and simple came to the surface.
Indignant at the way in which she had deceived everyone, and having much
at stake, Random did not spare her.
"It is not a mistake," he insisted; "neither is it a lie. When I became
aware that you must have written the letter, I drove at once to Jessum
to see if you had gone to London, as you had posted it there. I learned
from the station master and from a porter that you went to town by the
seven o'clock train and returned by the midnight."
Mrs. Jasher leaped to her feet.
"They could not recognize me. I wore--" Then she stopped, confused at
having so plainly betrayed herself.
"You wore a veil. All the same, Mrs. Jasher, you are too well known
hereabouts for anyone to fail to recognize you. Besides, your remark
just now proves that I am right. You wrote this blackmailing letter, and
I demand an explanation."
"I have none to give," muttered the woman fiercely, and fighting every
inch.
"If you refuse to explain to me you shall to the police," said Sir
Frank, rising and making for the door.
Mrs. Jasher flung herself forward and clung to him.
"For God's sake, don't!"
"Then you will explain? You will tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"Who murdered Sidney Bolton."
"I do not know. I swear I do not know," she cried feverishly.