"Mr. Gillespie? Do you think it was he who wrote these lines?"
"I do. There was no one else to do it."
Was my imagination too active, or had her voice a choked sound which spoke of some latent emotion she strove to conceal?
"Then," suavely responded the detective, "we need no other proof of Mr. Gillespie's condition up to the time he worked off this last line. I doubt if you ever made a better copy yourself, Miss Meredith. But why is it torn across in this manner? Half of the sheet is missing, and some portion at least of the letter is gone."
A sudden gasp which could have come from no other lips than hers was followed by certain short exclamations from the others indicative of interest if not surprise.
"Shall I take it out? Or will one of you read it as it lies here? I prefer one of you to read it."
We heard a few stammering sentences uttered by George or Alfred, then Leighton's voice broke in with the calm remark:
"It is about some shares lately purchased in Denver. If you think it necessary to hear what my father had to say concerning them, this is a facsimile of what he wrote a half-hour or so before he died:
New York, N. Y., Oct. 17, 1899.