J. S. Fletcher

“ Letwige, aren't you?"
"We were married when I was at the milliner's place in the West End," she answered. "Only we kept it secret. Nobody but father knows."
"Well, I'm sorry for you," said Brixey, "but you've got to face stern facts, Mrs. Letwige! Your husband's just been arrested; so has Mesham."
"Oh," she broke out. "It was that damned Mesham put him up to it! It’s all been Mesham! He planned it all about Mr. Linthwaite."
"Keep cool," whispered Brixey, "it’s the only thing. I'm the only person that can help you. And I will, if you’ll be sensible. ”

“ Gaffkin, you and Matsey go with them."
"And what about you, Mr. Brixey?" asked the elder detective. "What are you going to do?"
"Follow up a little idea of my own," answered Brixey. "And, on second thoughts. I'll keep Matsey. You can manage without him?"
"We'll take these fellows to the station round there and make them account for their doings," replied the detective. "You’ll come there and identify Letwige and tell what you know?"
"I'll come there before very long and identify Letwige and Mesham, and tell all I know!" assented Brixey. "You go and make sure of them." ”

“ You see two men waiting outside. One, as you see, is a policeman; the other is a detective. And I don't want to have to call them in."
The woman found her tongue. Brixey knew her to possess a naturally pleasant and ingratiating voice, and it surprised him now to find how hoarse and strained it had become.
"How—how did you find us here?" she gasped.
Brixey allowed himself to wink, and to smile.
"Ah!" he answered. "In all these affairs, Mrs. Letwige, there's generally some little detail that one goes wrong in. When you went off last night, you left your green purse on your dressing-table! ”