"What was you thinking, Benjamin, my son?" he said softly. "The Miss Thurwell case is plain before us, is it not? There is nothing fresh, is there? No fresh business, eh, my son?"
Mr. Benjamin started, and abandoned his reflections.
"No; nothing fresh, dad. It was the Thurwell affair I was thinking of. Give me the keys, will you?"
Mr. Levy leaned back in his chair and produced from his trousers pocket a jingling bunch of keys.
Mr. Benjamin took them in thoughtful silence, and, opening the safe, drew out a packet of faded letters tied up with ribbon. From these he selected one, and carefully replaced the rest.
"Those letters again," remarked his fond parent, chuckling. "Take care of them, Benjamin, take care of them. They was worth their weight in gold to us."
"They're worth a great deal more than that," remarked Mr. Benjamin carelessly. "There's only one thing, dad, that puzzles me a bit."
"It must be a rum thing, my boy, that does that," his fond parent remarked admiringly. "I never praise undeservedly, but I must say this, Benjamin, you've managed this Thurwell affair marvelously—marvelously! Come, let me see what it is that is too deep for you."
He rose and looked over his son's shoulder at the letter which he was reading—one thin sheet of foreign note paper, covered with closely written lines of faint, angular writing, and emitting even now a delicate musky scent.
"What is it, Benjamin—what is it?"