“The windows were open, and I recollect there was a strong draught,” remarked Ferguson thoughtfully. “But not sufficient to carry away that envelope.”
“Exactly.” Kent stepped closer. “Did you observe which one of our companions stood nearest the porch table?”
Ferguson eyed him curiously. “Say, are you insinuating that one of those people took your envelope?”
“Yes.”
A subdued whistle escaped Ferguson. “What was in that envelope. Mr. Kent,” he demanded, “to make it of any value to that bunch?” and as Kent did not answer immediately, he added, “Are you sure it had nothing to do with Jimmie Turnbull's death and Philip Rochester's disappearance?”
“Quite sure.” Kent's gaze did not waver before his penetrating look. “I have already told you that the envelope contained old love letters, and I very naturally do not wish them to fall into the hands of Colonel McIntyre, the father of the girl I hope to marry.”
Ferguson smiled understandingly. “I see. From what I know of Colonel McIntyre there's a very narrow, nagging spirit concealed under his frank and engaging manner; I wish you joy of your future father-in-law,” and he chuckled.
“Thanks,” dryly. “You haven't answered my question as to who stood nearest the porch table, Ferguson.”
The detective looked thoughtful. “We all stood fairly near; perhaps Mrs. Brewster was a shade the nearest. Mr. Clymer was offering her a chair when that noise came from the dining room. There's one thing I am willing to swear to”—his manner grew more earnest—“that envelope was still lying on the table when I hustled into the dining room.”
“Well, who was the last person to leave the porch?” Kent demanded eagerly.