“When you do call in a doctor, is it your habit to conceal your symptoms from him?”
“Of course not. I see what you mean. Mr. Jones, I give, you my word of honor, as I hope to be saved from this persecution, I don’t know any more than yourself what it means.”
“Then—er—I am—er—to believe,” replied Jones, drawling, as he always did when interest, in his mind, was verging on excitement, “that a simple blind threat like this—er—without any backing from your own conscience—er—could shake you—er—as this has done? Why, Mr. Robinson, the thing—er—may be—er—only a raw practical joke.”
“But the others!” cried the visitor. His face changed and fell. “I believe I am going crazy,” he groaned. “I didn’t tell you about the others.”
Diving into his overcoat pocket he drew out a packet of letters which he placed on the desk with a sort of dismal flourish.
“Read those!” he cried.
“Presently.” Average Jones ran rapidly over the eight envelopes. With one exception, each bore the imprint of some firm name made familiar by extensive advertising. All the envelopes were of softish Manila paper varying in grade and hue, under one-cent stamps.
“Which is the first of the series?” he asked.
“It isn’t among those. Unfortunately it was lost, by a stupid servant’s mistake, pin and all.”
“Pin?”