“Guy Nicholson.”
I sat dumbfounded. It was just as I had believed. The man struck down so suddenly had discovered the actual truth! He had watched in patience and learned some strange and startling facts.
The reference to the hand filled my mind with the hideous recollection of what I had seen in that roadside inn at Arnay-le-Duc—and of Arnold’s strange warning. Who was Harford—the name I was to remember. Asta had told her lover of her own experience, and he had solved the mystery!
Yet he had not been spared to reveal it to me. His lips had been closed by death. The name of Harford was still unknown to me.
How long I sat there staring at the closely written letter in my hand I know not. But I was awakened to a consciousness of where I was by Mr Napier’s quiet voice exclaiming—
“I see that my late client’s letter has made a great impression upon you, Mr Kemball. I presume it is of a purely private character, eh?”
“Purely private,” I managed to reply. “It does not concern his affairs in any way whatsoever, and it is marked ‘strictly private.’”
“Oh, very well. I, of course, have no wish whatever to inquire into your private affairs with my dead client,” replied the solicitor. “I believed that it might contain something important, and for that reason hesitated to send it through the post.”
“Yes,” I said meaningly, “it does contain something important—very important, Mr Napier. Had this been placed in my hand in time, my poor friend’s life might have been saved.”
“What do you mean?” he asked quickly, staring at me across the table. “Have you evidence—evidence of foul play?”