“I haven’t it myself,” Margaret replied with a faint flush. “I have no idea where he is at present. He left Sennen on the 23rd to go to Oulton via Penzance. But he never arrived at Oulton. He has not been home, he has not been to the office and he has not written. It is rather alarming, especially in connection with your mysterious letter.”
“Was my letter mysterious?” said Mr. Penfield, rapidly considering this new, but not very surprising development. “I hardly think so. It was not intended to be. What was there mysterious about it?”
“Everything,” she replied, producing the letter from her bag and glancing at it as she spoke. “You emphasize that Dan’s letter and the other contents have been seen by no eye but yours and that they are in a receptacle to which no one has access but yourself. There is a strong hint of something secret and compromising in the nature of Dan’s letter and the enclosures.”
“I would rather say ‘confidential,’ ” murmured Mr. Penfield.
“And,” Margaret continued, “you must see that there is an evident connection between this misdirected letter and Dan’s disappearance.”
Mr. Penfield saw the connection very plainly, but he was admitting nothing. He did, indeed, allow that “it was a coincidence” but would not agree to “a necessary connection.” “Probably you will hear from your husband in a day or two, and then the letter can be returned.”
“Is there any reason why you should not show me Dan’s letter?” Margaret demanded. “Surely I am entitled, as his wife, to see it.”
Mr. Penfield pursed up his lips and took a deliberate pinch of snuff.
“We must not confuse,” said he “the theological relations of married people with their legal relations. Theologically they are one; legally they are separate persons subject to a mutual contract. As to this letter, it is not mine and consequently I can show it to no one; and I must assume that if your husband had desired you to see it he would have shown it to you himself.”
“But,” Margaret protested impatiently, “are not my husband’s secrets my secrets?”