“Unless he wished to conceal the fact that he had taken his own life?” remarked Sainsbury.
“If he committed suicide, then he will probably have left some message behind him. They generally do,” Sir Houston said; whereupon both men crossed to the writing-table, which, neat and tidy, betrayed the well-ordered life its owner had led.
An electric lamp with a shade of pale green silk was burning, and showed that the big padded writing-chair had recently been occupied. Though nothing lay upon the blotting pad, there were, in the rack, three letters the man now dead had written and stamped for post. Sainsbury took them and glanced at the addresses.
“Had we not better examine them?” he suggested; and, Sir Houston consenting, he tore them open one after the other and quickly read their contents. All three, however, were professional letters to patients.
Next they turned their attention to the waste-paper basket. In it were a number of letters which Jerrold had torn up and cast away. Thomasson having gone to the telephone to inform the police of the tragic affair, the pair busied themselves in piecing together the various missives and reading them.
All were without interest—letters such as a busy doctor would receive every day. Suddenly, however, Sainsbury spread out before him some crumpled pieces of cartridge-paper which proved to be the fragments of a large strong envelope which had been torn up hurriedly and discarded.
There were words on the envelope in Jerrold’s neat handwriting, and in ink which was still blue in its freshness. As Sainsbury put them together he read, to his astonishment:
“Private. For my friend Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead. Not to be opened until one year after my death.”
Sir Houston, attracted by the cry of surprise which escaped Sainsbury’s lips, looked over his shoulder and read the words.
“Ah!” he sighed. “Suicide! I thought he would leave something!”