“Read it,” said Hugh. He handed it to Peter and went to the door.
“Denny,” he shouted, “I want my car round at once.” Then he came back into the room. “If they’ve hurt one hair of her head,” he said, his voice full of a smouldering fury, “I’ll murder that gang one by one with my bare hands.”
“Say, Captain, may I see this letter?” said the American; and Hugh nodded.
“‘For pity’s sake, come at once,’” read the detective aloud. “‘The bearer of this is trustworthy.’” He thoughtfully picked his teeth. “Girl’s writing. Do you know her?”
“My fiancée,” said Hugh shortly.
“Certain?” snapped the American.
“Certain!” cried Hugh. “Of course I am. I know every curl of every letter.”
“There is such a thing as forgery,” remarked the detective dispassionately.
“Damn it, man,” exploded Hugh; “do you imagine I don’t know my own girl’s writing?”
“A good many bank cashiers have mistaken their customers’ writing before now,” said the other, unmoved. “I don’t like it, Captain. A girl in real trouble wouldn’t put in that bit about the bearer.”