His friends hear from him but rarely.
Letters rec’d recently, posted in New York.
One by last steamer posted in F—, k. Y.
“Business here conducted by —. In the country, — of — has charge of the property. “BROWN.”
The document fell from my hands.
F—, N. Y., was a small town near R—.
“Your friend is a trump,” I declared. “He tells me just what I wanted most to know.” And, taking out my book, I made memoranda of the facts which had most forcibly struck me during my perusal of the communication before me. “With the aid of what he tells me, I shall ferret out the mystery of Henry Clavering in a week; see if I do not.”
“And how soon,” inquired Mr. Gryce, “may I expect to be allowed to take a hand in the game?”
“As soon as I am reasonably assured I am upon the right tack.”
“And what will it take to assure you of that?”
“Not much; a certain point settled, and—”
“Hold on; who knows but what I can do that for you?”
And, looking towards the desk which stood in the corner, Mr. Gryce asked me if I would be kind enough to open the top drawer and bring him the bits of partly-burned paper I would find there.
Hastily complying, I brought three or four strips of ragged paper, and laid them on the table at his side.
“Another result of Fobbs’ researches under the coal on the first day of the inquest,” Mr. Gryce abruptly explained. “You thought the key was all he found.
Well, it wasn’t.
A second turning over of the coal brought these to light, and very interesting they are, too.”
I immediately bent over the torn and discolored scraps with great anxiety.
They were four in number, and appeared at first glance to be the mere remnants of a sheet of common writing-paper, torn lengthwise into strips, and twisted up into lighters; but, upon closer inspection, they showed traces of writing upon one side, and, what was more important still, the presence of one or more drops of spattered blood.
This latter discovery was horrible to me, and so overcame me for the moment that I put the scraps down, and, turning towards Mr. Gryce, inquired:
“What do you make of them?”
“That is just the question I was going to put to you.”
Swallowing my disgust, I took them up again.
“They look like the remnants of some old letter,” said I.
“They have that appearance,” Mr. Gryce grimly assented.
“A letter which, from the drop of blood observable on the written side, must have been lying face up on Mr. Leavenworth’s table at the time of the murder—”
“Just so.”
“And from the uniformity in width of each of these pieces, as well as their tendency to curl up when left alone, must first have been torn into even strips, and then severally rolled up, before being tossed into the grate where they were afterwards found.”
“That is all good,” said Mr. Gryce; “go on.”
“The writing, so far as discernible, is that of a cultivated gentleman.
It is not that of Mr. Leavenworth; for I have studied his chirography too much lately not to know it at a glance; but it may be— Hold!”
I suddenly exclaimed, “have you any mucilage handy?
I think, if I could paste these strips down upon a piece of paper, so that they would remain flat, I should be able to tell you what I think of them much more easily.”
“There is mucilage on the desk,” signified Mr. Gryce.
Procuring it, I proceeded to consult the scraps once more for evidence to guide me in their arrangement.
These were more marked than I expected; the longer and best preserved strip, with its
“Mr. Hor” at the top, showing itself at first blush to be the left-hand margin of the letter, while the machine-cut edge of the next in length presented tokens fully as conclusive of its being the right-hand margin of the same.
Selecting these, then, I pasted them down on a piece of paper at just the distance they would occupy if the sheet from which they were torn was of the ordinary commercial note size.
Immediately it became apparent: first, that it would take two other strips of the same width to fill up the space left between them; and secondly, that the writing did not terminate at the foot of the sheet, but was carried on to another page.
Taking up the third strip, I looked at its edge; it was machine-cut at the top, and showed by the arrangement of its words that it was the margin strip of a second leaf.
Pasting that down by itself, I scrutinized the fourth, and finding it also machine-cut at the top but not on the side, endeavored to fit it to the piece already pasted down, but the words would not match.
Moving it along to the position it would hold if it were the third strip, I fastened it down; the whole presenting, when completed, the appearance seen on the opposite page.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, “that’s business.” Then, as I held it up before his eyes: “But don’t show it to me.
Study it yourself, and tell me what you think of it.”
“Well,” said I, “this much is certain: that it is a letter directed to Mr. Leavenworth from some House, and dated—let’s see; that is an h, isn’t it?” And I pointed to the one letter just discernible on the line under the word House.
“I should think so; but don’t ask me.”
“It must be an h.
The year is 1875, and this is not the termination of either January or February.
Dated, then, March 1st, 1876, and signed—”
Mr. Gryce rolled his eyes in anticipatory ecstasy towards the ceiling.