A minute passed, then Underhill drawled out:
"It's not as easy to make out as I expected. Will you let me compare it with a collection I have in a book here? I may have its mate."
"Sure, sir."
Underhill came my way. The sudden heat into which I was thrown by this unexpected move acted as a double warning. I must beware of self-betrayal, and I must take care not to give away my presence to the sharp-eyed, sharp-eared man whose perspicacity I had reason to dread. I therefore rose as quietly as possible and met Underhill's entering figure with a silent inquiry, nicely adjusted to the interest I was supposed to feel in the matter. He was no less careful, but there was a sparkle in his eye as he handed over to my inspection the match-box he had just taken from Yox, which contradicted his air of unconsciousness, and led me to inspect with great interest the monogram he displayed to my notice. It was by no means a simple one, as you will see by the sub-joined copy.
As I studied it, Underhill wrote on a sheet of paper lying open on the table:
"I have seen that match-box a dozen times." Then, separating the letters of the monogram, he wrote them out in a string, thus:
L L D G
"Leighton Gillespie?" I inquired in a kind of soundless whisper.
"Leighton Le Droit Gillespie," he wrote.