Anthony bowed to her. “Thank you—again! I am yielding to the promptings of that gift when I approach you now! And the information that you gave me earlier makes that approach a matter of necessity.” He held the three scraps of paper out to her.
“Miss Considine—will you look at these very closely? Is the handwriting yours?”
Mary glanced at the fragments with growing astonishment.
“What is this—please?” she queried.
“Can you help by answering my question first?”
I watched her and saw the amazement in her eyes.
“Very well then—Mr. Bathurst—yes. But I can’t——”
“You are certain? I want to be unmistakably certain—certain for instance that it isn’t an imitation—a wonderfully accurate imitation?”
She wrinkled her brows and pored over the pieces. When she raised her eyes she betrayed greater wonderment than ever.
“Mr. Bathurst—Bill—I’m absolutely bewildered. I’m certain—positive—as positive as I ever could be about anything—that this is my handwriting—yet I can’t recognize the letter from where they’ve come—I can’t even think whom it’s to—and if I didn’t know that it was my handwriting—I should swear that I hadn’t written it!!”