“You mean,” suggested Anthony, “that you don’t——”
“I mean this—absurd though it may seem and sound—that I recognize the handwriting, but I don’t recognize the letter. It is entirely unfamiliar. It appears to me at the moment that I’ve never previously seen it.” The color flamed in her cheeks and her eyes were bright with excitement. Anthony waited for her to proceed. He seemed to divine what her next question was going to be.
“Tell me,” her lips were working tremulously, “what is this? How did it come into your possession?”
“Those three fragments in your handwriting, Miss Considine, were found under the bed in the room recently occupied by Gerald Prescott.”
“What?” she exclaimed—indignation challenging surprise in her tone—“Mr. Bathurst—it can’t possibly be—I’ve never written a line to Mr. Prescott in my life.”
“Yet they were discovered as I have just said.” He spoke very quietly.
“There is some mistake—some mystery,” she reiterated.
“Some enemy hath done this—eh?” remarked Anthony.
“I’m dumbfounded—I don’t know what to say or suggest. I can’t think!”
“Tell me,” he said, “I realize the fragments are small, and therefore, not too easy to identify—but there’s this point. Do you recognize the notepaper as notepaper that you yourself would have been likely to use?”