I am frantic and hardly know what I am writing.
My head aches, but it is my heart that is breaking. Harris, I am yours
still, down in my heart, but not to be cast off like an old suit for a
new one. You know the old saying about a woman scorned. I beg you not
to go back on
Your poor little deserted
Vera.
* * * * *
As we finished reading, Leland exclaimed, "That never must come before
the jury."
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 is 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.
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