"
Kennedy was examining the letter carefully. "Strange," he muttered.
"See how it was folded. It was written on the wrong side of the
sheet, or rather folded up with the writing outside. Where have
these letters been?"
"Part of the time in my safe, part of the time this afternoon on my
desk by the window."
"The office was locked, I suppose?" asked Kennedy. "There was no
way to slip this letter in among the others since you obtained them?"
"None. The office has been locked, and there is no evidence of any
one having entered or disturbed a thing."
He was hastily running over the pile of letters as if looking to see
whether they were all there. Suddenly he stopped.
"Yes," he exclaimed excitedly, "one of them is gone." Nervously he
fumbled through them again. "One is gone," he repeated, looking at
us, startled.
"What was it about?" asked Craig.
"It was a note from an artist, Thurston, who gave the address of Mrs.
Boncour's bungalow - ah, I see you have heard of him. He asked
Dixon's recommendation of a certain patent headache medicine. I
thought it possibly evidential, and I asked Dixon about it. He
explained it by saying that he did not have a copy of his reply, but
as near as he could recall, he wrote that the compound would not
cure a headache except at the expense of reducing heart action
dangerously.
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