“Twenty minutes,” said Dig.
“All serene.”
The things had evidently been recently tied up with new string in fresh brown paper, the wedge of paper and the match-box being rolled up in the middle of the sack.
“That seems all right,” said Arthur, “now let’s see the letter.”
He carefully slid a pen-holder under the fold of the envelope, so as to open it without breaking, and extracted the letter, which ran as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—I send you the three things I told you of. The sack has his initials on it; the paper belongs to him, as you will see, and he is the only man in the house who could reach up to put the match-box on the ledge. Please do not mention my name. My only reason is to get justice done.
“Yours, truly,
“T.F.”
“Oh, the cad!” was the joint exclamation of the two readers as they perused this treacherous epistle.
“Look alive, now,” said Arthur; “cut down as fast as ever you can and fetch one of those turfs lying on the corner of the grass, you know.”