“I thought of that, and examined the interior of the carriage, but there is no possible place where a letter could be concealed. The carriage has recently been reupholstered in leather and there’s no crack or tear where an envelope could slip through.”
“Have you inquired at the different messenger services in town?”
“Yes, but there is no record at any of their offices that Senator Carew sent for a messenger to deliver a note yesterday afternoon or night. I also sent word to the post-office officials asking to have an outlook kept, and a search made for a letter franked by Senator Carew and postmarked yesterday.”
“It’s exceedingly doubtful if you get any results from that quarter, when you don’t know when or where such a letter was posted or to what city it was addressed.”
“The frank may help,” Brett glanced at the clock. “Eleven-thirty—I must be going.” He rose. “Did you meet with any success, Mr. Hunter, in the inquiries you said you would make this afternoon?”
“In a way, yes. Winthrop was at the Alibi Club, taking supper with Captain Stanton. But Julian Wallace, who was one of the party, told me that Winthrop left the club about twelve-thirty.”
Brett whistled. “And he did not reach this house until three hours later! I am afraid friend Winthrop will have much to explain when he recovers his senses.”
“Hold on; the Carew carriage returned here a few minutes before one o’clock—when the Senator was found dead inside it. That only left Winthrop less than half an hour to get from the club to Mrs. Owen’s residence, a considerable distance, and commit the murder.”
“It’s not impossible for a man in a motor,” declared Brett sharply.