"Was what?"
"If you don't mind, sir, I'd say it was queer, rather extraordinary circumstance. Now where could I have put it?"
"How was it queer? Don't keep me on the grid. What about it?"
"The fact is," said Wilkins, "I'd consider it a bit irregular. The backing was done with a typewriter, but the paper—I'd say the envelope was business, but not house stationary. It struck me that way, if you don't mind my saying it. Quite involuntary on my part, but natural, sir, considering the name looked familiar. Of course, I never remembered you in connection with Colombo until I'd seen your face——"
"Certainly, certainly," said Trask, impatiently.
"Stupid of me not to think of it before," went on Wilkins, musingly. "We hotel men get to notice things, and I shouldn't like to be so slow as a usual thing with—— Ah, here it is! Got in among the steamer guides."
Trask reached across for the letter. It was a large, square envelope of a bulky woven paper. On it was typed in purple:
Mr. Robert Trask. Consolidated Mines Syndicate.
To be called for.
The letters of the words were topped by a faint and blurry purple line, showing that the heavy envelope had undergone troubles by being rolled into a typewriter.
"Excuse me," said Trask. He tore it open just as the bar-boy appeared with a tray decorated with stone ginger jars and glasses. The letter read: