"Then let's go back to the possibilities. How about theft? Are you sure every one in the office was reliable?"
"Every one but me!" was his bitter retort.
"Then how about its being actually lost inside those four walls?"
"That's scarcely possible. I've gone through every nook and drawer and file. I've gone over the place with a fine-tooth comb, time and time again. I've even gone over my own flat, every pocket and every corner of every room."
"Then you have a home?" I asked.
Again there was the telltale neurasthenic delay before his answer came.
"I was married the same week the letter was lost," was his response.
"And your wife hasn't been able to help you remember?"
"She didn't know of it until a week ago. Then she saw I couldn't sleep, and kept forgetting things, trifling little things that showed I wasn't coordinating properly—such as letting a letter go out unsigned or getting muddled on the safe combination or not remembering whether I'd eaten or not. She said she thought I was in for typhoid or something like that. She went right down to Lockwood and practically accused him of making me overwork. Lockwood had to tell her what had happened. I suppose it was the way it was thrown at her, all in a heap! She went home to her own people that afternoon, without seeing me. I thought it over, and decided there was no use doing anything until—until the mess was cleared up some way or other."
I did not speak for several seconds. The case was not as simple as it had seemed.