"Lost, stolen, or strayed?" I asked.

"That's what I'd give my eye-teeth to know," he solemnly a.s.serted.

"But where do _you_ come in?"

His answer was given without the slightest shade of emotion.

"I signed for the letter."

"Then you remember that much?"

"No, I don't remember it. But when they began to investigate through the post-office, I knew my own signature when I saw it."

"With no chance of mistake, or forgery?"

"It was my own signature."

"And you don't even remember getting the letter?"

"I've gone back over that day with draghooks. I've thought over it all night at a stretch, but I can't get one clear idea of what I did."

The force of the situation was at last coming home to me.

"And they're holding you responsible for the disappearance of that letter?"

"Good G.o.d, I'm holding myself responsible for it! It's been hanging over me for nearly a month. And I can't stand much more of it!"

"Then let's go back to possibilities. Have you ever checked them over?"

"I've gone over 'em like a scrutineer over a voter's list. I've tested 'em all, one by one; but they all end up at the blank wall."

"Well, before we go back to these possibilities again, how about the personal equation? Have you any feeling, any emotional bias, any one inclination about the thing, no matter how ridiculous it may seem?"

He closed his eyes, and appeared to be deep in thought.

"I've always felt one thing," he confessed, "I've always felt--mind you, I only say felt--that when I signed for that Carlton letter, I carried it into Lockwood's own room with his own personal mail, and either gave it to him or left it on his desk."

"What makes you feel that?"

"In the first place, I must have known he'd seen Carlton recently, and had a clearer idea of his address at the time, than I had. In the second place, being registered, it must have impressed me as being comparatively important."

"And Lockwood himself?"

"He says I'm mistaken. He holds I never gave him the letter, or he would have remembered it."

"And circ.u.mstances seem to back him up in this?"

"Everything backs him up," was the answer.

"Then let's go back to the possibilities. How about theft? Are you sure every one in the office was reliable?"

"Every one but _me_!" was his bitter retort.

"Then how about its being actually lost inside those four walls?"

"That's scarcely possible. I've gone through every nook and drawer and file. I've gone over the place with a fine-tooth comb, time and time again. I've even gone over my own flat, every pocket and every corner of every room."

"Then you have a home?" I asked.

Again there was the telltale neurasthenic delay before his answer came.

"I was married the same week the letter was lost," was his response.

"And your wife hasn't been able to help you remember?"

"She didn't know of it until a week ago. Then she saw I couldn't sleep, and kept forgetting things, trifling little things that showed I wasn't coordinating properly--such as letting a letter go out unsigned or getting muddled on the safe combination or not remembering whether I'd eaten or not. She said she thought I was in for typhoid or something like that. She went right down to Lockwood and practically accused him of making me overwork. Lockwood had to tell her what had happened. I suppose it was the way it was thrown at her, all in a heap! She went home to her own people that afternoon, without seeing me. I thought it over, and decided there was no use doing anything until--until the mess was cleared up some way or other."

I did not speak for several seconds. The case was not as simple as it had seemed.

"And Lockwood, how does he feel about it?" I finally asked.

"The way any man'd feel!" The acidulated smile that wrinkled his face was significant. "He's having me shadowed!"

"But he _does_ nothing!"

"He keeps giving me more time."

"Well, doesn't that imply he still somehow believes in you?"

"He doesn't believe in me," was the slow response.

"Then why doesn't he do something? Why doesn't he act?"

There was a moment's silence. "Because he promised his daughter to give me another week."

Still again I experienced that odd tightening of the nerves. And I had to take a grip on myself, before I could continue.

"You mean Mary Lockwood personally interested herself in your case?"

"Yes."

That would be like Mary Lockwood, I remembered. She would always want to be something more than just; she would want to be merciful--with others. _I_ was the only one guilty of an offense which could not be overlooked!

"But why Mary Lockwood?" I asked, for something to say.

"She seemed to think I ought to be given a chance." Criswell spoke with listless heaviness, as though Mary Lockwood's pity, as though any one's pity, were a thing of repugnance to him.

"A matter of thumbs down," I murmured. He looked at me blankly; the idiom had not reached his intelligence. I crossed to the table and poured him out another gla.s.s of Bristol Milk.