He had seen my name and that of "Clark," whom he knew to be Oakes, on the register, and had located our rooms as right opposite his own. Perhaps he had better communicate with Oakes and myself, now it was six o'clock, he thought. He looked into the corridor and saw no one about, for no attendant watches in these little hotels in the country. He locked his door, and knocked at Oakes's. In a moment he heard the key click, and Oakes looked carefully through the partially opened door. The recognition was quick and Moore was admitted.
In another moment I had joined them, for Oakes's room and mine communicated; he had thought it best that we should have access to each other at all times, if possible.
We two hastily dressed, and Dr. Moore presented the cause of his visit as briefly as possible.
"Let me see the letter," said Oakes.
He read it carefully. "One thing is certain—it is written by a person of some education. That proves nothing, however. It may have been dictated originally by a very illiterate person."
"It was sent from New York."
"Oh, yes," said Oakes wearily, "but it may simply have been written there. It may have gone under cover in different language—from any place almost—and been copied or put into shape by an accomplice."
"Hard to trace it," said Moore.
"Yes, practically impossible, along those lines. But in any event it was written on a woman's paper; see the texture."
We all noticed its fineness and agreed.