"He returned to town last night, dear. I don't think he will come again until after Christmas."
"That is not for a few days," groaned Horran, in a piteous tone. "Oh, send for him, Clarry. I must see him about the letter."
"What letter, dear?" she asked, much puzzled. Horran raised his heavy lids with an effort. "The letter which I found on the terrace, near the window. It gave me a shock."
"Show it to me, Uncle Henry."
"No! You would not understand. Daniel might; he's so clever."
"Who wrote this letter?" coaxed Clarice, trying to get information. "There is no writing," he answered, drowsily. "It is not a letter."
"You said that it was."
"Picture writing, then, like the ancient Egyptians." She thought, naturally, that his mind was wandering, when he talked in so contradictory a manner. After a moment or so, his head fell back on the chair, and his eyes closed. He began to breathe deeply, and apparently was falling asleep. Clarice put her ear to his lips, as she saw them move, and caught three words, which conveyed nothing: "The--Purple--Fern!"
This was unintelligible, until she noticed an envelope at his feet, which had fallen out of his pocket. Picking this up, she took out the slip of paper it contained, and found thereon, no writing, but the representation of a tiny fern, stamped in purple ink.