"I think not," answered Mr. Hornblower, smiling drily. "They are not
of a nature which my client would care to communicate to any one. In
fact, Mr. Lester, as you have doubtless suspected, they are
compromising letters. We must get them back at any cost."
"As a matter of fact," I pointed out, "there are always at least two
people who know of the existence of every letter--the person who
writes it and the person who receives it."
"I had thought of that, but the person who wrote these letters is
dead."
"Dead?" I repeated.
"He was killed in a duel some months ago," explained Mr. Hornblower,
gravely.
"By Monsieur X.?" I asked quickly.
"By Monsieur X.," said Mr. Hornblower, and sat regarding me, his lips
pursed, as an indication, perhaps, that he would say no more.
But there was no necessity that he should. I knew enough of French
law and of French habits of thought to realise that if those letters
ever came into possession of Monsieur X., the game would be entirely
in his hands. His wife would be absolutely at his mercy. And the
thought flashed through my mind that perhaps in some way he had
learned of the existence of the letters, and was trying desperately
to get them.
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