altogether sure that Lathom’s affection for Mrs. Harrison had ceased.”
“And when you found that my father had died so opportunely—did no suspicion enter your mind?”
“Well—I admit it did just pass through my mind that Harrison might have done it himself. I—I didn’t want to believe it. I don’t know that I did really believe it. But it did occur to me as a possibility.”
“Nothing more?”
“Absolutely nothing more.”
“Will you read the letters, and tell me if, after that, you still think there was nothing more?”
He hesitated.
“If you are so sure that Lathom is innocent, you may be able to prove his innocence.”
He looked at me doubtfully, and slowly put out his hand for the letters. He read the endorsement by the solicitor, and looked sharply at me again, but said nothing. I waited while he read the documents through—first quickly, then for a second time slowly and with great attention.
“You will notice,” I said, “that, shortly before the time when he told you the affair was over, Margaret Harrison had written him a letter clearly indicating that she believed herself to be about to have a child by him.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“And that he was not informed that this belief was erroneous, till after my father’s death.”
“No.”