"This morning—yes. He merely said that he was still trying to strike the trail of Philip Warwick."
Ashton-Kirk held out the telegram.
"Send him this," said he, briefly.
Fuller glanced at the yellow sheet, and then whistled, amazedly; however, he said nothing, but instantly left the room.
The morning mail lay neglected upon the table. Some were sharp, businesslike envelopes, bearing downright statements as to the senders' identity; others were big and square, while a number were small and dainty. A few were remarkable after the same manner that an oddly dressed man is remarkable; and to one of these latter the eye of the secret agent was first attracted.
"It's hardly to be wondered at," he mused, as he held up the envelope and studied its characteristics, "that the postman should have mentally marked the letters received by Karkowsky. There seems an individuality about each piece of mail that must almost unconsciously impress the person handling it. A strange style of handwriting is like a strange face; the very manner of sticking on a stamp might give very clear indications as to another's mental process."
He cut open the flap of the envelope; when he unfolded the sheet enclosed, he glanced at the signature; then he lay back in his chair, a smile upon his face.
"Okiu," he murmured. "I was beginning to wonder what his first move would be."
Still smiling, he held the letter up once more, and read: