“Lying just about where it is now?”
“Exactly where it is now.”
“I see. You didn’t touch it then—just read it. I wonder why your husband left it there.”
She looked at him almost impatiently. “I don’t imagine he did leave it there—that is, purposely. It probably fell out from between the leaves when he slammed the book down.”
“Has it occurred to you that we might call up this Marge Myles—but that’s foolish. Of course you’d have thought of that.”
He observed her obliquely as she answered.
“He’d never forgive me.” Her gesture was faintly expressive of helplessness. “I’m not supposed to know anything about it.”
“Of course. This menace, Mrs. Endicott, this danger that you are fearing, where do you think it lies?”
She became consciously vague. “The streets—indoors—out—”
“And you’re basing it entirely upon this note?”
“Primarily. It’s something concrete, at any rate. I think that he ought to have protection, and yet, if I did do anything about it, he’d put it down as spying.”
“Well, if this note is a threat there is rarely only one, you know. I wonder whether we might find any others. I haven’t the remotest justification for looking, but I’m willing to do so if you wish me to.”
Mrs. Endicott grew curiously detached. “His papers are in the upper right-hand drawer,” she said.