It was slightly damp to the touch, he noticed, but he thought nothing of that on account of the rainy evening. Tearing it open, and holding it up to the light when he reached his rooms, he pursed his lips as he read:
“Dear Grail: I am dictating this to you at Schilder’s office, where I have just received some astounding information which completely exonerates you from the unjust suspicions some of us have entertained toward you, and also points the way toward the speedy recovery of Colonel Vedant.
“Should you return to the post before eight o’clock, will you not accept our apologies, and come at once to Mr. Schilder’s residence to join the officers in a conference we are holding there, to decide on how best to use the intelligence at hand to Vedant’s advantage? Faithfully yours,
Appleby.”
Grail studied the letter. There seemed no reason to doubt the genuineness of the bold signature; it was Appleby’s in every line and flourish. Neither could he question that the thing had been typed at Schilder’s office. The chipped “m” and blurred “D” spoke for themselves.
Then he smelled and tasted of the paper on which it was written, but an incipient head cold, as a result of his night spent out on the bottoms, had somewhat blunted those senses, and he could not be sure of the results. The letter seemed, on the face of it, to be straight.
Still, to make certain, he called in his “striker,” and asked if he knew where Major Appleby could be found.
“I understand, sir,” said the man, “that he and all the other officers at liberty have gone out to Mr. Schilder’s.”
Grail turned to Cato. “That seems to settle it,” he announced. “As soon as we can get brushed up a bit, we’ll call a taxi and be off.”
TO BE CONTINUED.