‘Typewritten address, London postmark,’ said
Merton. ‘To Robert Logan, Esq., at Kirkburn Keep, Drem, Scotland.’
Merton read the letter aloud; there was no date of place, but there were the words:
‘March 6, 2.45 p.m.
‘Sir,—Perhaps I ought to say my Lord—’
‘What a fool the fellow is,’ said Merton.
‘Why?’
‘Shows he is an educated man.’
‘You may obtain news as to the mortal remains of your kinsman, the late Marquis of Restalrig, and as to his Will, by walking in the Burlington Arcade on March 11, between the hours of three and half-past three p.m. You must be attired in full mourning costume, carrying a glove in your left hand, and a black cane, with a silver top, in your right. A lady will drop her purse beside you. You will accost her.’
Here the letter, which was typewritten, ended.
‘You won’t?’ said Merton. ‘Never meet a black-mailer halfway.’