“Really,” said Railsford, feeling his patience considerably taxed, “all this is very perplexing. Would you mind coming to the point at once, Bickers?”
“Not at all. When I saw you yesterday I asked you to look at a letter I had with me.”
“Oh, yes; I remember now. I was greatly taken up with the sports, and had no time then. I felt sure you would understand.”
“I understood perfectly. I have brought the letter for you now,” and he held it out.
Railsford took it with some curiosity, for Mr Bickers’s manner, besides being offensive, was decidedly mysterious.
“Am I to read it?”
“Please.”
The letter was a short one, written in an evidently disguised hand:
“Sir,—The name of the person who maltreated you lately is perfectly well-known in Railsford’s house. No one knows his name better than Mr Railsford himself. But as the house is thriving by what has occurred, it is to nobody’s interest to let out the secret. The writer of this knows what he is speaking about, and where to find the proofs.—A Friend.”
Railsford read this strange communication once or twice, and then laughed.