"
Mrs. Mallathorpe took another searching look at her visitor. Pratt was
leaning over the corner of the desk, towards her; already he had lowered
his tones to the mysterious and confidential note.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "Go on."
Pratt bent a little nearer.
"A question or two first, if you please, Mrs. Mallathorpe. And--answer
them! They're for your own good. Young Mr. Collingwood called on you
today."
"Well--and what of it?"
"What did he want?"
Mrs. Mallathorpe hesitated and frowned a little. And Pratt hastened to
reassure her. "I'm using no idle words, Mrs. Mallathorpe, when I say
it's for your own good. It is! What did he come for?"
"He came to ask what there was in a letter which his grandfather wrote
to me yesterday afternoon."
"Antony Bartle had written to you, had he? And what did he say, Mrs.
Mallathorpe? For that is important!"
"No more than that he wanted me to call on him today, if I happened to
be in Barford."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more--not a word."
"Nothing as to--why he wanted to see you?"
"No! I thought that he probably wanted to see me about buying some books
of the late Mr. Mallathorpe's."
"Did you tell Collingwood that?" asked Pratt, eagerly.
"Yes--of course."
"Did it satisfy him?"
Mrs. Mallathorpe frowned again.
"Why shouldn't I?" she demanded.
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