"All love,—
"JOHN."
The writing was rather feeble as a very ill person's would naturally be, but the name "John" was firm and very legible.
"You are certain that it is his writing?"
"Yes"—and then she handed him another letter from the packet—John's last one to her. "You can see for yourself—it is the same hand."
Stépan took both over to the lamp, and was bending to examine them when he gave a little cry:
"Sapristi!"—and instead of looking at the writings he sniffed strongly at the card, and then again. Amaryllis watched him amazedly.
"The same! By the Lord, it is the work of Ferdinand. No one could mistake his scent who had once smelt it. The muskrat, the scorpion! But he has betrayed himself."
Amaryllis grew paler as she came close beside him.
"Stépan, oh, tell me! What do you mean?"