He looked at me.
“You don’t believe in impressions?”
“Oh, yes, I do, in a sense. If, as you put it, word should come from her——”
I broke off. The door opened noiselessly and Parker entered with a salver on which were some letters.
“The evening post, sir,” he said, handing the salver to Ackroyd.
Then he collected the coffee cups and withdrew.
My attention, diverted for a moment, came back to Ackroyd. He was staring like a man turned to stone at a long blue envelope. The other letters he had let drop to the ground.
“Her writing,” he said in a whisper. “She must have gone out and posted it last night, just before—before——”
He ripped open the envelope and drew out a thick enclosure. Then he looked up sharply.
“You’re sure you shut the window?” he said.