Diary fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Mystery fiction; Short stories, English
The carpet! It had been a stout article in its time, had evidently began
in a drawing-room; then descended to a coffee-room; then gone upstairs
altogether to a bedroom. The ground was brown, and the pattern was
bunches of leaves and roses speckled over the ground at regular
distances. I reckoned up the bunches. Ten along the room--eight across
it. When I had stepped out five one way and four the other, and was down
on my knees on the center bunch, as true as I sit on this chair I could
hear my own heart beating so loud that it quite frightened me.
I looked narrowly all over the bunch, and I felt all over it with the
ends of my fingers, and nothing came of that. Then I scraped it over
slowly and gently with my nails. My second finger-nail stuck a little
at one place. I parted the pile of the carpet over that place, and saw
a thin slit which had been hidden by the pile being smoothed over it--a
slit about half an inch long, with a little end of brown thread, exactly
the color of the carpet ground, sticking out about a quarter of an inch
from the middle of it. Just as I laid hold of the thread gently, I heard
a footstep outside the door.
It was only the head chambermaid. “Haven’t you done yet?” she whispers.
“Give me two minutes,” says I, “and don’t let anybody come near the
door--whatever you do, don’t let anybody startle me again by coming near
the door.”
I took a little pull at the thread, and heard something rustle. I took
a longer pull, and out came a piece of paper, rolled up tight like those
candle-lighters that the ladies make. I unrolled it--and, by George!
there was the letter!
The original letter! I knew it by the color of the ink. The letter that
was worth five hundred pounds to me! It was all that I could do to keep
myself at first from throwing my hat into the air, and hurrahing like
mad. I had to take a chair and sit quiet in it for a minute or two,
before I could cool myself down to my proper business level. I knew that
I was safely down again when I found myself pondering how to let Mr.
Davager know that he had been done by the innocent country attorney,
after all.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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