Do not forget that it is to-morrow, Saturday, you are to meet me at Aix-la-Chapelle, from where we will go on to Brussels together, as we have planned. If I should fail to meet you at the train, you will find me at a hotel called the Kölner Hof, not far from the station.
With much love,
Bradford Stewart.
Stewart read this remarkable message with astonished eyes, then, holding the card close to the candle, he stared at it in bewilderment.
“But it is my handwriting!” he protested. “At least, a fairly good imitation of it—and the signature is mine to a dot.”
“Your signature was all the writer had,” she explained. “Your handwriting had to be inferred from that.”
“Where did you get my signature? Oh, from the blank I filled up at Aix, I suppose. But no,” and he looked at the card again, “the postmark shows that it was mailed at Cologne last night.”
“The postmark is a fabrication.”
“Then it was from the blank at Aix?”
“No,” she said, and hesitated, an anxiety in her face he did not understand.