“Tom,” Brent said, “take a look in that cupboard and see if the paper’s there.” Tom looked thoroughly and shook his head in a negative manner.
“So much for that, then,” Brent murmured, as though it were serious business. Nevertheless, he looked to be enjoying his present role.
“Scotland Yard would appreciate you, Brent,” I said. “You’ve missed your vocation.”
“I know it,” he said, and went on, “Also, my fountain pen was used in writing this letter. I know its defects so well that I recognized them at once. I know it because it always blots in making punctuation marks. Especially periods.”
“How could he have gotten hold of your pen, for goodness’ sake?” Tom asked.
“I’ve been keeping it on the table standing upright in that little bud vase. It leaks if I don’t.”
“Well, Brent,” I said, “if that’s the case I’ll give you a new one for Christmas next year. Please go on and read that letter!”
“I don’t know that I’d care to part with it now,” Brent answered good-humoredly. “It’s thrown some light on this mystery already.”
“And ink,” Tom remarked.
“Ink then,” Brent came back, “and be thankful for its blessings. Well, here goes⸺”