'DEAR LARKIN,--I hope you did the three commissions all right. Wealdon
won't refuse, I reckon--but don't let Lake guess what the 150_l._ is for.
Pay Martin for the job when finished; it is under 60_l._. mind; and get
it looked at first.'


There was a great deal more, but these were the passages which perplexed
Larkin. He unlocked the iron safe, and took out the sheaf of Wylder's
letters, and conned the last one over very carefully.

'Why,' said he, holding the text before his eyes in one hand and with the
fingers of the other touching the top of his bald forehead, 'Tom Wealdon
is not once mentioned in this, nor in any of them; and this palpably
refers to some direction. And 150_l._?--no such sum has been mentioned.
And what is this job of Martin's? Is it Martin of the China Kilns, or
Martin of the bank? That, too, plainly refers to a former letter--not a
word of the sort. This is very odd indeed.'

Larkin's finger-tips descended over his eyebrow, and scratched in a
miniature way there for a few seconds, and then his large long hand
descended further to his chin, and his under-lip was, as usual in deep
thought, fondled and pinched between his finger and thumb.

'There has plainly been a letter lost, manifestly. I never knew anything
wrong in this Gylingden office. Driver has been always correct; but it is
hard to know any man for certain in this world. I don't think the captain
would venture anything so awfully hazardous. I really can't suspect so
monstrous a thing; but, _unquestionably_, a letter _has_ been lost--and
who's to _take_ it?'