In the same drawer as the cheque-book I found a black leather portfolio, securely locked.
The latter fact impressed me. Everything else was open to my secretary, who possessed keys, both to writing-table and safe. But this was locked, apparently because therein were contained certain private papers that I had wished to keep from his eyes.
No man, whoever he may be, reposes absolute confidence in his secretary. Every one has some personal matter, the existence of which he desires to preserve secret to himself alone.
I drew forth the locked portfolio, and placed it upon the blotting-pad before me. It was an expansive wallet, of a kind such as I remembered having seen carried by bankers’ clerks in the City from bank to bank, attached by chains to the belts around their waists.
Surely upon my ring I must possess a key to it. I looked, and found a small brass key.
It fitted, and a moment later I had unlocked the wallet and spread my own private papers before me.
What secrets of my lost life, I wondered, might not those carefully preserved letters and documents contain?
In eager, anxious wonder I turned them over.
Next instant a cry of dismay broke involuntarily from my lips, as within trembling fingers I held one of those papers—a letter addressed to me.
I could scarce believe my own eyes as I read it. Yet the truth was plain—hideously plain.