"No, my lord. It was kept in his writing-desk as a rule. He would write the checks for the household here, my lord, and give them to me. Or occasionally he might take the book down to the Club with him."
"Ah! Well, it doesn't look as though the mysterious Mr. Oliver was one of those undesirable blokes who demand money. Right you are, Woodward. You're perfectly certain that you removed nothing whatever from those clothes except what was in the pockets?"
"I am quite positive of that, my lord."
"That's very odd," said Wimsey, half to himself. "I'm not sure that it isn't the oddest thing about the case."
"Indeed, my lord? Might I ask why?"
"Why," said Wimsey, "I should have expected—" he checked himself. Major Fentiman was looking in at the door.
"What's odd, Wimsey?"
"Oh, just a little thing struck me," said Wimsey, vaguely. "I expected to find something among those clothes which isn't there. That's all."
"Impenetrable sleuth," said the major, laughing. "What are you driving at?"
"Work it out for yourself, my dear Watson," said his lordship, grinning like a dog. "You have all the data. Work it out for yourself, and let me know the answer."