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“Did Miss Barrymore’s sister, Mrs. Faith Barker, offer you some letters?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“Yes.”
Lovat-Smith kept his evenness of expression and voice with difficulty.
“And you accepted them. What were they, Mr. Monk?”
“Letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister,” Monk replied. “In a form close to a diary, and written almost every day for the last three and a half months of her life.”
“Did you read them?”
“Naturally.”
Lovat-Smith produced a sheaf of papers and handed them up to Monk.
“Are these the letters Mrs. Barker gave you?”
Monk looked at them, although there was no need. He knew them immediately.
“They are.”
“Would you read to the court the first one I have marked with a red ribbon, if you please?”
Obediently, in a tight hard voice, Monk read:
“My dearest Faith,
“What a marvelous day I have had! Sir Herbert performed splendidly. I could not take my eyes from his hands. Such skill is a thing of beauty in itself. And his explanations are so lucid I had not the slightest difficulty in following him and appreciating every point.
“He has said such things to me, I am singing inside with the sheer happiness of it. All my dreams hang in the balance, and he has it all in his power. I never thought I should find anyone with the courage. Faith, he truly is a wonderful man—a visionary—a hero in the best sense—not rushing around conquering other peoples who should be left alone, or battling to discover the source of some river or other—but crusading here at home for the great principles which will help tens of thousands. I cannot tell you how happy and privileged I am that he has chosen me!
“Until next time, your loving sister,
Prudence.”
“And the second one I have marked, if you will?” Lovat-Smith continued.
Again Monk read, and then looked up, no emotion in his eyes or his features. Only Rathbone knew him well enough to be aware of the revulsion inside him for the intrusion into the innermost thoughts of a woman he admired.
The room was in silence, every ear strained. The jury stared at Sir Herbert with undisguised distaste.
“Are the others in a similar vein, Mr. Monk?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“Some are,” Monk replied. “Some are not.”
“Finally, Mr. Monk, would you read the letter I have marked with a yellow ribbon.”
In a low hard voice, Monk read:
“Dear Faith,
“Just a note. I feel too devastated to write more, and so weary I could sleep with no desire to wake. It was all a sham. I can scarcely believe it even now, when he has told me face to face. Sir Herbert has betrayed me completely. It was all a lie—he only wished to use me—all his promises meant nothing. But I shall not let it rest at that. I have power, and I shall use it!
Prudence.”
There was a sigh of breath, a rustle as heads turned from Monk to stare up at the dock. Sir Herbert looked strained; his face showed the lines of tiredness and confusion. He did not look frightened so much as lost in a nightmare which made no sense to him. His eyes rested on Rathbone with something close to desperation.
Lovat-Smith hesitated, looking at Monk for several moments, then decided against asking him anything further. Again, he was not sufficiently certain of the answer.
