girl in wood after 1 a.m.”
“Do you mean to say,” cried the detective, “that you can remember the anonymous letter word for word? You have only seen it once, and that was several days ago.”
“Not only word for word, but the spacing, the number of words in a line, the lines between which creases appear. Look, Winter. Here is the small broken ‘c,’ the bent capital ‘D,’ the letter ‘a’ out of register. Where is the original?”
“Here, in my pocket-book.”
They silently compared the two typed sheets. It needed no expert to note that they had been written by the same machine.
“It would take a clever counsel to upset that piece of evidence,” said Winter. “I wish I had hold of the writer.”
“You have spoken to him several times.”
“Surely you cannot mean Jiro!”
“Who else? Jiro is but the tool of a superior scoundrel. He is just beginning to suspect the fact, and trying to use it for his own benefit. I wish I was in Naples with your friend Holden.”
“But, Mr. Brett, the murderer is in London! What about this morning’s attempt—”