“I gathered from what you said to me,” I answered, “that you thought you might be able to throw some light on the circumstances of my father’s death.”
“That’s as may be. There’s ways and ways of dyin’. Some is took, and some takes French leave, and others is ’elped out of life, ain’t they, sir?”
“Have you got any information to show that my father was helped out of life?”
“Well, there, sir. I wouldn’t go for to say sech a thing—nor yet for to deny it, ’uman nature bein’ that wicked as you can see for yourself any Sunday in the News of the World . But wot I says is, w’en persons is wicked enough to ’ave goin’s on be’ind a gentleman’s back, there’s no knowin’ wot may come of it, is there?”
“You said you had letters to show me.”
“Ah!” she nodded. “There’s good readin’ in letters sometimes, sir. There’s letters as would be worth ’undreds of pounds in a court of law, to some people as one might name.”
“Come, come, Mrs. Cutts,” said I, “very few letters are worth anything like that.”
“That’s not for me to judge, sir. If letters should turn out not to be worth nothin’, why, they’re easy destroyed, ain’t they, sir? There’s many a person I daresay wishes that ’e, or it might be she, sir, ’ad destroyed the letters wot they ’ad written. I was never one for writin’ letters myself. A word’s as good, and leaves nothin’ but air be’ind it, that’s wot I say. And them as leaves letters about casual-like, might often be grateful for a word of warnin’ from them as is wiser’n themselves.”
Her screwed-up eyes twinkled with consciousness of power.