Manfred smiled.
On the back of one bill were closely written columns of figures: “12/6, 13/15, 10/7, 17/12, about 24,” etc. Against a number of these figures the word “about” appeared, and Manfred observed that invariably this qualification marked one of the higher numbers. Against the 10/7 was a thick pencil mark.
There were amongst the papers several other receipts. In St. Paul he had bought a “pistol automatic of precision” and ammunition for the same. The “pistol automatic of precision” was not in the trunk.
“We found it in his pocket,” said Meadows briefly. “That fellow was expecting trouble, and was entitled to, if it is true that they tortured him at Mosamodes.”
“Moss-am-o-dees,” Manfred corrected the mispronunciation. It almost amounted to a fad in him that to hear a place miscalled gave him a little pain.
Meadows was reading a letter, turning the pages slowly.
“This is from his sister: she lives at Brightlingsea, and there’s nothing in it except . . .” He read a portion of the letter aloud:
“. . . thank you for the books. The children will appreciate them. It must have been like old times writing them—but I can understand how it helped pass the time. Mr. Lee came over and asked if I had heard from you. He is wonderful.”
The letter was in an educated hand.
“He didn’t strike me as a man who wrote books,” said Meadows, and continued his search.