"We thought of that. The desks and drawers had been rooted through, all right, but nothing seemed to be missing."
"Would she know all about Bruce's papers?" Clayton fired the query like a policeman. "Don't stall, you damned Edwardian. I know she was his mistress."
"I don't happen to like that word in that particular connection," said Kintyre gently. "However—she hadn't seen all of Bruce's letters and notes. He kept them in a couple of cardboard filing boxes. They didn't seem even to have been opened, though."
"Did you look in to make sure?"
"No. Should we have?"
"I guess not." Clayton rubbed his chin. "No, I wouldn't bother. Because the burglar was evidently looking for something he thought might be in the apartment, but which wasn't. Something that might be in a desk or a bureau drawer, but was too large to fit into a filing box or a—any such thing."
"As what?" challenged Kintyre.
He had already guessed the answer: "The Book of Witches is a fairly big volume."
Kintyre nodded. He was on the point of repeating what Margery had said to him, when they stood in the ruins after the police had gone.