"It was in the breast pocket of his gray coat, underneath the lining," Rowan gasped.
"I found the place," Deane answered, "but it was empty."
Rowan wiped the sweat from his forehead. His breathing was becoming difficult. Already the excitement was affecting him. "But it was there on that night!" he exclaimed. "He took off his coat a few minutes before, and I saw him feel it in the lining."
"All I can tell you," Deane answered, "is that the lining of the gray coat was torn, as though something had been abstracted. The paper was not there. It was not anywhere in the room. I ran a risk," he continued, after a moment's pause, "which I dare not think of, even now, but it was in vain. Someone had been before me."
"Was there anyone else upon the scent, then?" Rowan asked.
Rowan looked at him with distended eyes. "You don't mean to insinuate," he began, "that I--that I had given it away?"
"Not wilfully," answered Deane. "Is there anyone at all to whom you spoke of this?"
Rowan shook his head. "Only to my sister," he said, "and she is as silent as the grave."
"Nevertheless," Deane said, "the paper has gone. Someone has it--is holding it now--for a purpose, I suppose. There can but be one purpose. Perhaps," he added, "you had better ask your sister, to be quite sure whether she ever mentioned its existence to anyone."
"We will ask her at once!" Rowan exclaimed. "I will ask her before you. Let me get up. Help me. I will fetch her."
Deane stretched out his hand. "No!" he said. "You must not excite yourself Rowan. I will knock at the door and call your sister."
Rowan lay back, gasping. Deane crossed the room and knocked at the door which led to the inner apartment.
She opened the door almost immediately. "Yes?"
Deane stood aside. "Your brother," he said, "has a question to ask you!"
Winifred came slowly into the room. It seemed to Deane, watching her curiously, that she had been steeling herself to defiance. There was no change in her expression, and her lips seemed tighter drawn than ever. She went at once to her brother's side.
"You have been talking too much, Basil," she said. "You know that it is not good for you."
He leaned across to the little table which stood by his side and helped himself to brandy. He was indeed looking terribly ill. The lines under his eyes seemed traced with a coal-black pencil, and his hand shook so that half the brandy was spilled.
