“Did you not say that Detective Ferguson brought you the envelope, Mr. Kent?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what more likely than that he carried it off again?” She smiled amusedly as Kent's expression altered. “Why not ask the detective?”
Her suggestion held a grain of truth. Suppose Ferguson had not believed his statement that the papers in the envelope were his personal property and had taken the envelope away to examine it at his leisure? The thought brought Kent to his feet.
“Good night, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes,” he said jestingly, “I'll follow your advice”—There was no opportunity to say more, for several men had discovered the widow's perch on the stairs and came to claim their dances. Over their heads McIntyre watched Kent stride downstairs, then stooping over he picked up Mrs. Brewster's fan and sat down to patiently await her return.
Kent's pursuit of the detective took longer than he had anticipated, and it was after midnight before he finally located him at the office of the Chief of Detectives in the District Building. “I've called for the envelope you took from my safe early this evening,” he began without preface, hardly waiting for the latter's surprised greeting.
“Why, Mr. Kent, I left it lying on the porch table at the club,” declared Ferguson. “Didn't you take it?”
“No.” Kent's worried expression returned. “Like a fool I forgot the envelope when that cheering broke out in the dining room and rushed to find out what it was about; when I returned to the porch the envelope was gone.
“Disappeared?” questioned Ferguson in astonishment.
“Disappeared absolutely; I searched the porch thoroughly and couldn't find a trace of it,” Kent explained. “And in spite of McIntyre's contention that it might have blown out of the window, I am certain it did not.”