“Why wasn’t it there the morning of the eleventh?” she asked.
“My dear madam,” he said with a gentle smile, “if we knew that, we’d know who the murderer is. We’d know it, that is: but possibly not in a way that we could prove.”
“Precious little good that would do us,” she answered.
“So much good that the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that the proof would be forthcoming. There are few men who are shrewd enough to cover every trace.”
“But these seem to be of the few,” she said.
“We are not through with them yet,” he replied; and then suddenly: “Has the new detective, employed by Hunter and his friends, been here?”
He had, and had made a critical examination of the house from cellar to attic; had been through the papers in the desk and safe, and had taken away a number of scraps from the former.
“He didn’t get the writing-pad, though,” he said.
“No; that disturbed him; especially when I told him you had it.”
“The—deuce you did!” he exclaimed. “I wish—you hadn’t!”