Caruth quailed as he spoke. It was terribly hard even to debate anything this woman asked. Scarcely could he force himself to go on. “I must know more,” he pleaded. “Really, I must know more! Don’t you see that I must?”
“Very well. You shall.” The woman paused for an instant and then went on: “This letter and another were put into a bottle which was thrown overboard from a sinking ship. It floated about until ten days ago, when it was picked up by a fisherman. One of the letters was for my friends. The address was legible, and it was forwarded to us by mail, reaching us twenty-four hours later. The address on the other had partly faded; the name of the person for whom it was meant had disappeared altogether. But it was addressed in your care, at your address here. The fisherman who found it showed it to a casual American, who advised him to send it on to you, and who provided him with an envelope and postage, including a quick delivery stamp.
“When our letter came, we hurried down to question the fisherman, and from him learned what I have told you. Our letter had once contained all the information we needed, but part of the writing had been washed out by the sea water, and could not be read. We hope that the letter sent to you may be in better condition, so I have hurried over here to get it from you.”
Caruth listened amazedly. “But,” he objected, “for whom was the letter really meant?”
“I do not know. Evidently for some one associated with you. Can you not guess?”
Caruth shook his head slowly. “No,” he mused. “No, I cannot guess.” Curiously he studied the envelope he held in his hands.
The woman hesitated; then came to a sudden resolution. “There are two envelopes,” she explained. “One of them was put on by the fisherman. Open that, if you will, but be careful.”
Caruth obeyed and drew out the inclosure. It was a small envelope, dirty and stained and smelling strongly of fish. Indeed, a minute scale clung to one corner until he mechanically brushed it away. On the face, in blurred writing, appeared his own name: “Care Mr. Alston Caruth, Chimneystack Apartment Building, New York, N. Y.” Another name had been written just above, but it was indecipherable.
“The whole address was there when the fisherman opened the bottle,” explained the girl. “Part of it soaked off in his pocket on the way to shore. Can you make it out?”
Caruth studied the superscription, and shook his head. “No,” he declared; “I can make out nothing. But I soon will.” With a quick motion, he ripped open the envelope.