"The hand that killed Drouet and Vantine may also have closed the drawer," said Godfrey, and looked at me.
"And left the letters in it?" I questioned. "Surely not!"
He glanced at the shuttered window, and I understood to whom he thought that hand belonged.
"Besides," I protested, "how would he get in? How would he get away?
What was he after, if he left the letters behind?" Then I rose
wearily. "I must be getting back to the office," I said. "This is
Saturday, and we close at two. Are you coming?"
"No," he answered; "if you don't mind, I'll sit here a while longer and think things over, Lester. Perhaps I'll blunder on to the truth yet!"
CHAPTER XVII
ENTER M. ARMAND
I got back to the office to find that M. Félix Armand, of Armand et Fils, had called, and, finding me out, had left his card with the pencilled memorandum that he would call again Monday morning. There was another caller, who had awaited my return—a tall, angular man, with a long moustache, who introduced himself as Simon W. Morgan, of Osage City, Iowa.
"Poor Philip Vantine's nearest living relative, sir," he added. "I came as soon as possible."
"It was very good of you," I said. "The funeral will be at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, from the house."