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elapt1c
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ElapticAI-512

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“Upon what point?
“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?
Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly,
now! she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at
him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.
“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.
“You think that he is dead?
“I do.
“Murdered?
“I don’t say that. Perhaps.
“And on what day did he meet his death?
“On Monday.
“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is
that I have received a letter from him to-day.
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.
“What! he roared.
“Yes, to-day. She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in
the air.
“May I see it?
“Certainly.
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the
table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my
chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very
coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the
date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was
considerably after midnight.
“Coarse writing, murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your husband’s
writing, madam.
“No, but the enclosure is.
“I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and
inquire as to the address.
“How can you tell that?
“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself.
The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has
been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none
would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and
there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only
mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but
there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter.
Ha! there has been an enclosure here!
“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.
“And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?
“One of his hands.
“One?
“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing,
and yet I know it well.
“‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge
error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in
patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book,
octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man
with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very
much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have
no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?
“None. Neville wrote those words.
“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the
clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is
over.
“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.
“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The
ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.
“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!
“Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
posted to-day.
“That is possible.
“If so, much may have happened between.