“There’s writing on it,” exclaimed Mayhew, peering at the letter from Cardona’s elbow. “What does it say?”
Eagerly, Cardona pressed Mayhew aside. He dashed up to Commissioner Weston and thrust the paper into his hands.
“Look at this!” gasped the detective. “See what it says!”
Weston was reading, with Biscayne and Fredericks moving close. He read aloud: “In memory of—”
“I don’t mean the typing!” exclaimed Cardona. “I mean the writing!”
“The writing?” questioned Weston, in perplexity. “What writing do you mean?”
“Across the message” — Cardona was gripping the paper — “right in the center—”
The detective’s words froze on his lips. His voice became an inarticulate stammer.
There was nothing upon the paper now except the typing! The written words had vanished!
A disappearing ink; that was the only explanation. Some quick-acting chemical agent that faded almost instantly the moment that it encountered air.