The description sounded like that of Sorley, and Alan stretched out his hand. “I want that letter, you imp?” he said impressively.
“Give me a quid an’ it’s yours.”
Fuller shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Latimer, who nodded. It was unpleasant being dictated to by a boy, but the issues were so great that Dick’s nod intimated it was best to agree, and get the epistle in question with the least possible trouble. Money was scarce with Fuller, but so anxious was he to arrive at the truth that he reluctantly brought forth another sovereign. Jotty clawed it and went through the same ceremony. He then produced a letter written on very excellent paper, which was dirty with having been in his pocket for some length of time, probably to wrap up the marbles he had mentioned. In his anxiety Dick rose and looked over his friend’s shoulder to read the letter. It did not take long, as it only consisted of a date, a line and the writer’s initials as follows, on a plain sheet of gray note-paper without any address:—
“11 November.
“Will see you seven o’clock, 13: 11: 08.
“R. V. S.”
“Is it his writing?” asked Latimer, referring to Sorley, but not mentioning the name because of Jotty’s presence.
“I think so. I can compare it with the letter he wrote me. The initials are certainly his, and the appointment is for the night of the murder.”
“But he wos up afore,” put in Jotty, who grinned in a very satisfied manner, as he well might do, considering he had just made two pounds.
“Who was up before?” asked Latimer sharply. “Him es wrote thet letter.”