“Okay. I’ve played tag with Mister and had a talk with your nephew. Now if I could see where Janet keeps her stationery, and take a sample from that typewriter. Is that the one?”
“Yes. But first come to Janet’s room. I’ll show you.”
I followed her. It was at the other end of the house, on that floor, one flight up, a pleasant little room and nice and neat. But the stationery was a washout. It wasn’t in a box. It was in a drawer of a writing table with no lock on it, and all you had to do was open the drawer with a metal ring for a puller, which couldn’t possibly have had a print, and reach in and take what you wanted, paper and envelopes both. Bess Huddleston left me there, and after a look around where there was nothing to look for, I went back to the office. Daniel was still there on the chair where we had left him. I ran off some sample lines on the typewriter, using a sheet of Janet’s paper, and was putting it in my pocket when Daniel spoke:
“You’re a detective.”
I nodded. “That’s what they tell me.”
“You’re finding out who sent those anonymous letters.”
“Right.” I snapped my fingers. “Just like that.”
“Anyone who sends letters like that deserves to be immersed to the chin in a ten percent solution of hydrofluoric acid.”
“Why, would that be painful?”
Daniel shuddered. “It would. I stayed here because I thought you might want to ask me something.”