"They went up together, Mrs. Middlemore breathing heavily, perfuming the air with a flavor of beer. There was an escritoire in the sitting-room, and our reporter examined it.
"'I'll tell you what I'm looking for,' he said. 'I see pens, ink, and paper, denoting that M. Felix was occasionally in the habit of using them, but there is not a scrap of paper about with his writing on it. There is not even a monogram on the note paper. If we could find something, it might furnish a clue. He received letters, I suppose?'
"'Oh, yes, sir.'
"'And the presumption is that he answered them. Did you ever post any of his letters?'
"'Never once, sir.'
"'Here is a waste-paper basket; there must have been in it, at odd times, scraps of the letters he received and spoilt sheets of his own. Has your dust bin been emptied this week?'
"'No, sir, but you wouldn't find anything of Mr. Felix's in it. It was one of his orders that whatever was in the waste-paper basket should be burnt here in his own fireplace. I used to sweep this room in the morning when he was in bed, and he always said I did my work so quietly that he was never disturbed by any noise.'
"'Look round the room, Mrs. Middlemore, and see if you miss anything. You would be pretty well acquainted with everything in it. What is the meaning of that gasp? You do miss something?'
"'There was another desk, sir, and I don't see it.'
"'What kind of desk?'