Dr. Denham went to the desk, and I sat silently waiting. Bethel was evidently thinking.
"I received it," he said, after a moment of silence, disturbed only by the rustling of papers, as the old doctor searched the desk, "I received it two days after the search for little Effie Beale. I made up my mind then that I would have a detective, whom I could rely upon, here in Trafton. And then Dr. Barnard was taken ill. After that I waited—have you found it?"
Dr. Denham stood beside me with a letter in his hand, which Bethel, by a sign, bade him give to me.
"Do you wish me to read it?" I asked.
"Yes."
I glanced at the envelope and almost bounded from my seat. Then, withdrawing the letter with nervous haste, I opened it.
Dr. Bethel. If that is your name, you are not welcome in Trafton. If you stay here three days longer, it will be at your own risk.
No resurrectionists.
I flushed with excitement; I almost laughed with delight. I got up, turned around, and sat down again. I wanted to dance, to shout, to embrace the dear old doctor.