“Perhaps,” continued the wily Ludlow, “I had picked the sheet up somewhere, absent-mindedly, I suppose, and forgotten about it. It was rather a tense day. But Mr. Cosgrove saw fit to declare that I had rifled his correspondence—he claimed it as his, at any rate. Can you make any more of it than I?”
“What do you make of it?” asked Salt, who had been reading it the while.
I fancied a little spite in his Lordship’s tone. “In the light of events, nothing. Suppose you show it to my friends here. One of them may suggest some interpretation that will throw light.”
Crofts was obviously bursting to get a look at the screed, and I myself was glad of the opportunity to see what else it contained besides the singular remark about “the mail.” It commenced without indication to whom addressed:
“Dear Sir,
I suppose that I shall see you before long, and we may discuss the topic conveniently.
I must inform you, however, that my principals leave me no option in the matter. I hope you will realize your untenable and actually perilous position; we do not want your brains scattered about. On the evening of my arrival, I shall expect a communication from you, stating whether you will be amenable. Suppose you leave it in the mail—you know where; I’ll come and get it.”
I studied the signature for some time before I made it out: “Lochinvar.”
“And you say that you have no idea what this means?” asked Salt.
“I wish I did!” responded Lord Ludlow; then, looking sorry he had spoken with such feeling, he added, “I mean that if I did, I might see some reason for Mr. Cosgrove’s bursting into a tirade against me.”
“Oh, yes?” remarked the Superintendent dryly, and turned to Crofts. “I suppose you couldn’t tell when this was delivered?”
“Not while he was here,” returned Crofts promptly. “The only delivery is at eleven, and I sort the mail myself. Cosgrove never got any.”