“Never, sir.”
“Now,” Average Jones took up the examination, “will you tell me of any enemy who would have reason to persecute you?”
“I haven’t an enemy in the world.”
“You’re fortunate,” returned the other smiling, “but surely, some time in your career—business rivalry—family alienation—any one of a thousand causes?”
“No,” answered the harassed man. “Not for me. My business runs smoothly. My relations are mostly dead. I have no friends and no enemies. My wife and I live alone, and all we ask,” he added in a sudden outburst of almost childish resentment, “is to be left alone.”
The inquisitor’s gaze returned to the packet of letters. “You haven’t complained to the post-office authorities?”
“And risk the publicity?” returned Robinson with a shudder.
“Well, give me over night with these. Oh, and I may want to ’phone you presently. You’ll be at home? Thank you. Good day.”
“Now,” said Average Jones to Bertram, as their caller’s plump back disappeared, “this looks pretty, queer to me. What did you think of our friend?”
“Scared but straight,” was Bertram’s verdict.