“Yes, but the envelopes were alike, neither being marked at that time, and as his uncle jumbled them together in his hands, this did not help him or us.”
“Ah, the red mark was put on later?”
“Yes. The pencil with which he did it was found on the floor.”
I tried to find a way through these shadows,—to spur my memory into recalling the one essential thing which would settle a very vexing question—but I was obliged to give it up with the acknowledgment:
“That mark was in the corner of one of the envelopes at the time I saw them; but I do not know which will it covered. God! what a complication!”
“Yes. No daylight yet, my boy. But it will come. Some trivial matter, unseen as yet, or if seen regarded as of no account, will provide us with a clew, leading straight to the very heart of this mystery. I believe this, and you must, too; otherwise you will find your life a little hard to bear.”
I braced myself. I shrank unaccountably from what I felt it to be my present duty to communicate. I always did when there was any possibility of Orpha’s name coming up.
“Some trivial matter? An unexpected clew?” I repeated. “Mr. Jackson, I have been keeping back a trivial matter which may yet prove to be a clew.”
And I told him of the note made up of printed letters which I had found in my box of cigars.
He was much interested in it and regretted exceedingly that I had obeyed the injunction to burn it.