rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.


“Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your

husband’s writing, madam.”


“No, but the enclosure is.”


“I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and

inquire as to the address.”


“How can you tell that?”


“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself.

The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been

used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a

deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a

pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar

with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as

trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure

here!”


“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”


“And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”


“One of his hands.”


“One?”


“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing,

and yet I know it well.”


“‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is

a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in

patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book,

octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a

dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error,

by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your

husband’s hand, madam?”


“None. Neville wrote those words.”


“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the

clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is

over.”


“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”


“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring,

after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”


“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”