"And how can Janoc know where Osborne is, or his assumed name, to write to him?" muttered Furneaux. "I thought that that was a secret between Osborne, Winter, and myself."
Clarke, equally puzzled, scratched his head under his wig, which had been insufferably hot in that stifling room.
"Janoc and his crew must be keeping an eye on Osborne, it seems—for some reason," he exclaimed. "Heaven knows why—I don't. I am out of the de Bercy case, of course. My interest in the Janoc crowd is—political."
"Let me see the letter again," said Furneaux; and he read it carefully once more. Then he opened the sheet, as if seeking additional information from the blank pages, turned it over, looked at the back—and there at the back he saw something else that was astounding, for, written backwards, near the bottom of the page, in Osborne's handwriting, was the word "Rosalind."
"Who is 'Rosalind'?" asked Furneaux—"see here, an impression from some other letter written at the same time."
"Don't know, I'm sure," said Clarke. "A sister, perhaps."
"A sister. Why, though, should his sister's name appear at the back of a note written to Janoc, or to Inspector Clarke, as he thought?" said Furneaux to himself, deep in meditation. He suddenly added brightly: "Now, Clarke, there's a puzzle for you!"
"I don't see it, see any puzzle, I mean. It might have appeared on any other letter, say to his bankers, or to a friend. It was a mere accident. There is nothing in that."
"Quite right," grinned Furneaux. "And it was a sister's name, of course. 'Rosalind.' A pretty name. Poor girl, she will be anxious about her fond and doting brother."
"It may be another woman's name," said Clarke sagely—"though, for that matter, he'd hardly be on with a new love before the other one is cold in her grave, as the saying is."