“What was the nature of these papers?” asked Rolfe.

“Well, sir, I never read them.  Sir Horace set such store by them that I never dared to open them for fear he would find out.  They were mostly letters and they were tied up with a piece of silk ribbon.”

“A lady’s letters, of course,” said Rolfe.

“Judging from the writing on the envelopes they were sent by a lady,” said Hill.

Rolfe breathed quickly, for he felt that he was on the verge of a discovery.  Here was evidence of a lady in the case, which might lead to a startling development.  Perhaps Crewe was right in declaring that Birchill was the wrong man, he said to himself.  Perhaps the murderer was not a man, but a woman.

“And who do you think stole them?” he asked Hill.

“That is more than I would like to say,” replied the butler.

“Are you sure they were in this hiding place when Inspector Chippenfield took charge of everything?”

“Yes, sir.  I dusted out the room the morning you and he came to Riversbrook together, and the papers were there then, because I happened to touch the spring as I was dusting the desk, and it flew open and I saw the bundle there.”

“Why didn’t you tell Inspector Chippenfield about the papers and the secret drawer?”

“That is what I intended to do, sir, if he didn’t find them himself.  But when I had found they had gone I didn’t like to say anything to him, because, as you may say, I had no right to know anything about them.”

“When did they go:  when did you find they were missing?”

“When Inspector Chippenfield went out for his lunch.  I looked in the desk and found they had gone.”

“Who could have taken them?  Who had access to the room?”

“Well, sir, Mr. Chippenfield had some visitors that morning.”

“Yes.  There were about a dozen newspaper reporters during the day at various times.  There were Dr. Slingsby and his assistant, who came out to make the post-mortem:  Inspector Seldon, who came to arrange about the inquest, and there was that man from the undertakers who came to inquire about the funeral arrangements.  But none of these men were likely to take the papers, and still less to know where they were hidden.  In any case, no visitor could get at the desk while Mr. Chippenfield was in the room.  And he is too careful to have left any visitor alone in this room—­it was here that the murder was committed.”

“He left one of his visitors alone here for a few minutes,” said Hill in a voice which was little more than a whisper.

“Which one?” asked Rolfe eagerly.

“A lady.”

“Who was she?”

“Mrs. Holymead.”

“Oh!” Rolfe’s exclamation was one of disappointment.  “She is a friend of the family.  She came out to see Miss Fewbanks—­it was a visit of condolence.”

“Yes, sir,” said the obsequious butler.  “She was a friend of the family, as you say.  She was a friend of Sir Horace’s.  I have heard that Sir Horace paid her considerable attention before she married Mr. Holymead—­it was a toss up which of them she married, so I’ve been told.”