“it was g— —ern oo thev the princes—”
Then there was a blurred line where the ink had run, with only a letter or two distinct at intervals. Then half a blank line, and then, very much blurred and obscure, more resembling a row of blots than so much writing:
“e as idden—sum whare—for sertane.”
Another line all blotted and indistinct; then:
“umble Suvvent,—Wun oo nose.”
Then a line in which so obscure and run were the letters that minutes had elapsed before the reader could make out what they meant:
“toe the doktor.”
Glyn drew back from the glass as if stung, and then the question which came to him was who had written this abominable, ill-spelt accusation, evidently pointed at himself?
“That was the letter, then, that the Doctor mentioned,” he said to himself, and he tried to read the words again, instinctively filling up some of the blanks so as to make the letter fit himself; and it seemed to him that there could only have been one person who was capable of writing such a thing.
He examined the lettering once again—a back-slanting hand, disguised.