“But he seemed to know me at the ball.”
“Oh, no! he didn’t know you. He thinks you’re dead as dead.”
“But you say you know what is in that note?”
“Oh, yes!”
“You’ve read it?”
“Not that.”
“What do you mean?”
Jerry took a closely-folded newspaper from his pocket.
“Ratcham, Dolchester, and Froude Magnet, sir—Richard Smithson,” he read, and then doubling it closely, held it out, pointing to a paragraph.
“My eyes swim. I don’t understand what you mean, Jerry.”