m in the office.”
“God grant it!” the clerk said fervently.
For the moment, Sir Giles was staggered. “Have you heard something that you haven’t told me yet?” he asked.
“No, sir. I am only bearing in mind something which–with all respect–I think you have forgotten. The last tenant on that bit of land in Kerry refused to pay his rent. Mr. Arthur has taken what they call an evicted farm. It’s my firm belief,” said the head clerk, rising and speaking earnestly, “that the person who has addressed those letters to you knows Mr. Arthur, and knows he is in danger–and is trying to save your nephew (by means of your influence), at the risk of his own life.”
Sir Giles shook his head. “I call that a far-fetched interpretation, Dennis. If what you say is true, why didn’t the writer of those anonymous letters address himself to Arthur, instead of to me?”
“I gave it as my opinion just now, sir, that the writer of the letter knew Mr. Arthur.”
“So you did. And what of that?”