“Did the safe look as if its contents had been tumbled about?” asked Kent.
“No, everything seemed in order.” Ferguson thrust his hand inside his coat pocket. “There was one envelope in the right hand compartment which puzzled me—”
“Hold on—was that compartment also unlocked?” asked Kent.
“It was,” not giving Kent time to speak again Ferguson continued his remarks. “As this was unaddressed I brought it to you, Mr. Kent, to ask if it was your personal property”—he drew out the white envelope which Helen McIntyre had brought Kent that morning and turned it over so that both men could see the large red seal bearing the letter “B.”
“It is my property,” asserted Kent instantly.
“Would you mind opening it?” asked Ferguson.
“I would, most certainly; it relates to my personal affairs.”
Ferguson looked a trifle non-plussed. “Would you mind telling me its contents, Mr. Kent?” he asked persuasively.
Kent regarded the detective squarely. He could not betray Helen, the envelope might contain harmless nonsense, but she had placed it in his safe-keeping—no, confound it, she had left it in the safe for Rochester—and Rochester was apparently a fugitive from justice, while circumstantial evidence pointed to his having poisoned Helen's lover, Jimmie...
“If you must know, Ferguson,” Kent spoke with deliberation. “They are old love letters of mine.”