“You wore a veil.
All the same, Mrs. Jasher, you are too well known hereabouts for anyone to fail to recognize you. Besides, your remark just now proves that I am right.
You wrote this blackmailing letter, and I demand an explanation.”
“I have none to give,” muttered the woman fiercely, and fighting every inch.
“If you refuse to explain to me you shall to the police,” said Sir Frank, rising and making for the door.
Mrs. Jasher flung herself forward and clung to him.
“For God’s sake, don’t!”
“Then you will explain?
You will tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Who murdered Sidney Bolton.”
“I do not know.
I swear I do not know,” she cried feverishly.
“That is ridiculous,” said Random coldly. “You say in this letter that you can hang me or save me.
As you know that I am innocent, you must be aware who is guilty.”
“It’s all bluff.
I know nothing,” said Mrs. Jasher, releasing his arm and throwing herself on the couch. “I only wished to get money.”
“Five thousand pounds—eh?
Rather a large order,” sneered Random, replacing the letter in his pocket.
“You would not ask that sum for nothing: you must be aware of the truth.
I suspected many people, Mrs. Jasher, but never you.”
The woman rose and flung out her arms.
“No,” she said in a deep voice, and fighting like a rat in a corner. “I tricked you all down here.
Sir Frank, I will tell you the truth.”
“About the murder?”
“I know nothing of that.
About myself.”
Random shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll hear about yourself first,” he said. “I can learn details concerning the murder later.
Go on.”
“I know nothing of the murder or of the theft of the emeralds—”
“Yet you hid the mummy in this house, and afterwards placed it in your arbor to be found by the Professor, for some reason.”
“I know nothing about that either,” muttered Mrs. Jasher doggedly, and with very white lips. “That letter you have traced to me is all bluff.”
“Then you admit having written it?”
“Yes,” she said sullenly. “You know too much, and it is useless for me to deny the truth in the face of the evidence you bring against me.
I would fight though,” she added, raising her head like a snake its crest, “if I was not sick and tired of fighting.”
“Fighting?”
“Yes, against trouble and worry and money difficulties and creditors.
Oh,” she struck her breast, “what do you know of life, you rich, easy-going man?
I have been in the depths, and not through my own fault.
I had a bad mother, a bad husband.
I was dragged in the mire by those who should have helped me to rise.
I have starved for days; I have wept for years; in all God’s earth there is no more miserable a creature than I am.”
“Kindly talk without so much melodrama,” said Random cruelly.
“Ah,” Mrs. Jasher sat down and locked her hands together, “you don’t believe me. I daresay you don’t understand, for life, real life, is a sealed book to you.
It is useless for me to appeal to your sympathy, for you are so very ignorant.
Let us stick to facts.
What do you wish to know?”
“Who killed Sidney Bolton: who has the emeralds.”
“I can’t tell you.