“Is that Mr. Maple?” he said.
“Speaking,” said a brusque voice.
“I’m Virgil Pardoner.”
“Yes?”
“The name isn’t _Jane_. It’s _June_.”
“Ah. I thought Mr. Forsyth said ‘June,’ but I wanted to see what you
said. That’s splendid. She’s altered your letter, of course—changed the
‘u’ into ‘a.’ That was easy. And now we _have_ got her—tight. All
you’ve got to do is to trot out Miss _June_ Townshend and, if she has
any letters of yours—she probably has—to see that she brings them with
her. There’s a train at——”
“She hasn’t,” yelled Virgil. “She hasn’t. I know she hasn’t.”
“Oh, but she may. Lots of women promise to destroy——”
“She can’t. I never wrote any. There’s—_there’s no such woman_.”
“No such _what_?” cried Maple.
“Woman,” said Virgil, calmly. Now that the murder was out, he felt much
better. “You know. Female of man. June Townshend is a creation of my
lightning brain. I also invented Stoughbridge, or whatever the rotten
place is, complete with Rectory. I pictured an old-world garden, with a
hammock and croquet-nets. Oh, and a bamboo cake-stand. June was there,
feeding the aspodestras with crumbs of rock-cake. The letter, I may say,
was written to substantiate the fantasy. It was a beautiful piece of
prose. . . .”
There was a long silence.