Matthew Bentham was a tall, well-built man, whose ruddy face indicated that he was fond of outdoor life, in spite of his being a close student. The truth was that he learned many things about nature at first hand. He had traveled in many lands, besides knowing a great deal about his own, and his knowledge was extensive and peculiar. He had been lucky enough to conserve health and wisdom all in one operation.
“My explanation of how I know about the letter is very simple,” replied the detective. “I had that letter mailed myself. It was written only a few minutes before his death last night.”
“To think that Anderton should die of heart failure,” exclaimed Bentham. “Why, I can hardly believe it. Think of the altitudes to which he climbed in the Himalayas, Carter. No man with a weak heart could stand such a cold and rare atmosphere as you get up there. Well, I’m glad I have probably the last words he ever wrote.”
“Yes, there is no doubt of that, I think. The fact was, I had that letter mailed for certain reasons.”
Matthew Bentham looked puzzled. Then he shook his head, as if he did not care to pursue the subject.
“Those reasons are sufficiently weighty,” went on Nick, “for me to desire to know what he wrote. I realize that my request is distinctly out of the ordinary. But I think you know me well enough to be sure that I must have a very strong motive.”
The professor was silent for a few moments. The detective knew he was turning the request over in his mind, and that it had not struck him at all favorably. Then he seemed to decide the other way, for he broke out impulsively:
“Well, it is rather irregular, but I don’t know why you shouldn’t see the letter. Of course, I have your promise that you will not let it go any further.”
“Of course,” replied Nick. “I think it is hardly necessary for me to say that, but I do promise.”
Professor Bentham handed the letter to Nick Carter, who read as follows: