box. I looked out into the street, but there was no one in sight who seemed a likely person to have dropped it in."
"No messenger-boy?"
"No, sir, no one of the kind."
"And the keys came with it?"
"Yes, sir, in a small brown-paper parcel."
"Addressed to you?"
"No, the parcel was addressed to no one. There was nothing on it at all."
"You are sure they are Mr. Philip's keys?"
"Of course they are. Whose should they be? Why—why do you say that?"
"Has Mr. Philip been in the habit of sending you typewritten letters?"
"He has never done such a thing in his life before."
"In this even the signature is typed—as if he had made up his mind that you should not have a scrap of handwriting which you could recognise. I don't see why he need to have had such a letter typed at all. Is he himself a typist?"
"Not that I know of; I never heard him speak of it."
"Then to have had such a letter typed by some one else was to add to his risk. Why couldn't he have trusted you with a letter written by his own hand?"
"I can't say."
