"No, but I insist on knowing what is missing, Holmes. It is my right to know," called the doctor, as he struggled into his army overcoat.
"Nothing but a cigar-case and an old pocket-book. I've mislaid them somewhere and there's no time to look. Come on."
"Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Miller in a low tone, "I have abundant reason for asking and—no! Tell me. Where was that pocket-book and how much money was there in it?"
"In my overcoat-pocket, at sunset. Probably one hundred dollars or so. I never carry much in that way. You will not speak of it, Mrs. Miller?"
"To my husband I must, and this very night. You do not dream what trouble we are in, with a thief in our very midst."
"Some of the servants, I suppose," he said, carelessly.
But to his surprise she only bowed her head and was silent a moment, then muttered rather than spoke the words,—
"God knows. I only hope so!"
V.
"What a trump that young fellow McLean seems to be, doctor," said Mr. Holmes, reflectively, late that night as the two men were smoking a final cigar together.