“Have you any of the letters that Archer wrote home?” asked Craig, at length.
“Yes,” she replied eagerly, taking a little packet from her handbag. “I thought you might ask that. I brought them.”
“You are an ideal client,” commented Craig encouragingly, taking the letters. “Now, Mrs. Northrop, be brave. Trust me to run this thing down, and if you hear anything let me know immediately.”
She left us a moment later, visibly relieved.
Scarcely had she gone when Craig, stuffing the letters into his pocket unread, seized his hat, and a moment later was striding along toward the museum with his habitual rapid, abstracted step which told me that he sensed a mystery.
In the museum we met Doctor Bernardo, a man slightly older than Northrop, with whom he had been very intimate. He had just arrived and was already deeply immersed in the study of some new and beautiful colored plates from the National Museum of Mexico City.
“Do you remember seeing Northrop here yesterday afternoon?” greeted Craig, without explaining what had happened.
“Yes,” he answered promptly. “I was here with him until very late. At least, he was in his own room, working hard, when I left.”
“Did you see him go?”
“Why—er—no,” replied Bernardo, as if that were a new idea. “I left him here—at least, I didn’t see him go out.”