It was a letter with a black edge so deep that it scarcely left room for the ill-written, ill-spelled direction—
To the Peple
at No. — Pellum Street.
“It is the same handwriting as was on the envelope of the blank sheet that Mrs. Challoner got before Christmas,” said Tom. “Don’t you remember that envelope was torn up at first, but that I got the pieces out of the waste-paper basket and kept them? Directly I saw this I compared the two; it’s the same handwriting, only this is worse.”
Mr. Somerset turned it over and over in his hand. “Did you tell Mrs. Challoner about this?” he asked.
“No,” answered Tom emphatically; “I did not. It would have been too cruel to show it to her to-day—I couldn’t. Besides, it is not addressed to her.”
“You have done rightly,” said Mr. Somerset; “even if it be nothing but the circular of a mourning warehouse, it is not a thing for her to see to-day. Its coming to-day is a very strange coincidence!”
“Is it a mere coincidence?” questioned Tom.
“Well, as you say, it is not addressed to Mrs. Challoner. You are one of ‘the peple’ as much as she is. You have a perfect right to open it, and when we see its contents we can the better judge of its significance.”
The contents were a sheet of thick paper with heavy black borders, between which, on all four sides, was a long “screed,” which seemed to the most careful scrutiny to be nothing but pot-hooks and hangers, dotted i’s, and crossed t’s, making not one intelligible word among them all!
“It is evident to me,” said Mr. Somerset, “that the blank letter and the ‘knocks’ and this letter all emanate from somebody who wishes to annoy and to give pain. I can’t see why they should do so. It is probably the work of some of the servants who have given Mrs. Challoner so much trouble, or of some of their friends. At any rate, the matter is not one in which we can readily move; and to-day we will not call Mrs. Challoner’s attention to it. She has but too much trouble already!”