Anthony smiled and held out his hand. He read the writing with interest and turned the letter over with apparent curiosity.
“Where did you find this, Inspector?”
“Sorry, Mr. Bathurst, but you mustn’t expect me to give away all my secrets. Tricks in every trade, you know.” He laughed lightly. “As you were good enough to remark just now—all in good time. Let’s come to the point, the handwriting—recognize it?”
“I’ve never seen it before, so I can’t. But I think, before the case is over, that I shall probably see it again.”
Baddeley flung him a challenging glance. But Anthony’s eyes met his and never for an instant wavered. Then they both smiled.
“Try Sir Charles Considine,” countered Anthony. “He might know it, though I don’t fancy so.”
Sir Charles straightened himself in his chair. He extended his hand. “Let me look, Baddeley, though why Mr. Bathurst is so confident that—no, no,” shaking his head in dissent, “to the best of my knowledge and belief, this writing is new and therefore strange to me. What’s the date—my eyes aren’t as good as they were?”
“July 22nd,” responded Anthony, with the utmost readiness, from the other side of the table.
I fancied that the Inspector threw him an approving glance, but I remembered his uncanny memory for dates, and their associations. He had seen the letter and had mastered its detail—that was all. Baddeley gave the letter to Roper. “Keep that handy,” he muttered, “we haven’t exhausted all the possibilities.” Then to Sir Charles: “I should like to see Mr. Considine junior next, Mr. Jack Considine, is it?”
Our host bowed—“As you wish.”