"there is one thing," said john openshaw. he rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table. "i have some remembrance," said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers i observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. i found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and i am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. beyond the mention of pips, i do not see that it helps us much. i think myself that it is a page from some private diary. the writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s."