Then his eyes took in Sperry and Herbert, and he drew himself up.

“I see,” he said.  “It wasn’t the letter, then?”

“Not entirely.  We want to have a talk with you, Hawkins.”

“Very well, sir.”  But his eyes went from one to the other of us.

“You were in the employ of Mr. Wells.  We know that.  Also we saw you there the night he died, but some time after his death.  What time did you get in that night?”

“About midnight.  I am not certain.”

“Who told you of what had happened?”

“I told you that before.  I met the detectives going out.”

“Exactly.  Now, Hawkins, you had come in, locked the door, and placed the key outside for the other servants?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you expect us to believe that?” Sperry demanded irritably.  “There was only one key.  Could you lock yourself in and then place the key outside?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied impassively.  “By opening the kitchen window, I could reach out and hang it on the nail.”

“You were out of the house, then, at the time Mr. Wells died?”

“I can prove it by as many witnesses as you wish to call.”

“Now, about these letters, Hawkins,” Sperry said.  “The letters in the bag.  Have you still got them?”

He half rose—­we had given him a chair facing the light—­and then sat down again.  “What letters?”

“Don’t beat about the bush.  We know you have the letters.  And we want them.”

“I don’t intend to give them up, sir.”

“Will you tell us how you got them?” He hesitated.  “If you do not know already, I do not care to say.”

I placed the letter to A 31 before him.  “You wrote this, I think?” I said.

He was genuinely startled.  More than that, indeed, for his face twitched.  “Suppose I did?” he said, “I’m not admitting it.”

“Will you tell us for whom it was meant?”

“You know a great deal already, gentlemen.  Why not find that out from where you learned the rest?”

“You know, then, where we learned what we know?”

“That’s easy,” he said bitterly.  “She’s told you enough, I daresay.  She doesn’t know it all, of course.  Any more than I do,” he added.

“Will you give us the letters?”

“I haven’t said I have them.  I haven’t admitted I wrote that one on the desk.  Suppose I have them, I’ll not give them up except to the District Attorney.”

“By ‘she’ do you refer to Miss Jeremy?” I asked.

He stared at me, and then smiled faintly.

“You know who I mean.”

We tried to assure him that we were not, in a sense, seeking to involve him in the situation, and I even went so far as to state our position, briefly: 

“I’d better explain, Hawkins.  We are not doing police work.  But, owing to a chain of circumstances, we have learned that Mr. Wells did not kill himself.  He was murdered, or at least shot, by some one else.  It may not have been deliberate.  Owing to what we have learned, certain people are under suspicion.  We want to clear things up for our own satisfaction.”