And so they were.
"Now," he said, "suppose you show me what you were so careful to hide from me in Cuba?"
"Did Wright—?" I began indignantly, "What do you mean?"
"No, Wright didn't. But I guessed. Have I written for nothing all these years? I'm a sleuth when it comes to a fellow-craftsman. Besides, there's this—"
He drew a crumpled sheet from his inner pocket. I snatched at it.
"That old thing!" said I, with scorn. "Where did you find it?"
"I couldn't account for your inky little hands and your fits of abstraction," he answered, "solely by an explanation of your love for letter-writing and your dislike of me."
"Where did you find it, Creature?" I demanded again.
"In Wright's pocket. Old coat, on a chair—I was looking for a match."
"Doesn't sound plausible," said I, spreading out the blotted paper. Bill read with me, over my shoulder.