“Because,” returned the diplomat conclusively, “we got a note like that, or nearly like it, a week ago, and——”
Ford could not restrain a groan. “And you never told me!”
“There wasn't anything to tell,” protested the diplomat. “We handed it over to the police, and they reported there was nothing in it. They couldn't find the man at that hotel, and, of course, they couldn't find the house with no more to go on than——”
“And so,” exclaimed Ford rudely, “they decided there was no man, and no house!”
“Their theory,” continued the Secretary patiently, “is that the girl is confined in one of the numerous private sanatoriums in Sowell Street, that she is insane, that because she's under restraint she IMAGINES the nurses are trying to kill her and that her relatives are after her money. Insane people are always thinking that. It's a very common delusion.”
Ford's eyes were shining with a wicked joy. “So,” he asked indifferently, “you don't intend to do anything further?”
“What do you want us to do?” cried his friend. “Ring every door-bell in Sowell Street and ask the parlor-maid if they're murdering a lady on the top story?”
“Can I keep the paper?” demanded Ford. “You can keep a copy of it,” consented the Secretary. “But if you think you're on the track of a big newspaper sensation, I can tell you now you're not. That's the work of a crazy woman, or it's a hoax. You amateur detectives——”
Ford was already seated at the table, scribbling a copy of the message, and making marginal notes.
“Who brought the FIRST paper?” he interrupted.