"Yes, he is certain of that."
"Who’s the carrier who made the collections, Mr. Henderson?"
"James Andrews."
"‘Pop’ Andrews!" exclaimed Owen. "Then that disposes of the theory that the letter was stolen on the way from the street box to the post office. I’m sure that Pop is too honest to have stolen it himself, and too careful to let anybody else take it from his bag. What has Pop to say about the matter, Mr. Henderson?"
"He hasn’t given us any explanation. He’s all broken up about the matter. The poor fellow realizes that he’s placed in a nasty position. Nevertheless, it seems to me that he’s holding something back. I mean to say that there’s something about his manner that sort of gives me the idea that he knows a little more than he cares to tell about that letter."
"May I see him?" asked Inspector Sheridan.
"Yes; I’ll send for him."
Carrier Andrews entered the superintendent’s private office looking very worried and upset. He uttered an exclamation of astonishment when he discovered that Sheridan was the inspector assigned to the case.
"Now, Pop," said Owen gently to the veteran postman, "what can you tell me about this pink letter? Any help that you can give me I’ll greatly appreciate."
The old man looked at the young inspector pityingly. "Owen—er—I beg your pardon, I mean Mr. Sheridan—I’m mighty sorry that they sent you up to handle this case, because I’ve decided, after thinking it over, that I’d better tell the whole truth, and I’m afraid it’s going to hit you pretty hard."