“I can’t see what’s on this, man, without a light! Mine are not cat’s eyes; it’s dark as pitch in here.” “Before I light up, sir, I’ll lower the blind. There’s no need for folks to see what’s going on in here.” He not only lowered the blind, he drew the curtains, too, leaving a darkness which might have been felt; then started groping for a match upon the mantelshelf. When he had found one he lit the gas--a single burner. By its radiance I examined the paper he had given me. In shape, size, appearance, it was own brother to the sheet which had come to me. On it was a typewritten letter; which, however, in this case, was not anonymous. “To Joseph Morley, “Dear Morley, “I’m in a bad scrape. I can’t come home. And I’ve no clothes, and no money. I send you my keys. Look, you know where, and send me all the money you can find; and my cheque-book, and my dressing-case, and two or three trunks full of clothes. As you know, I took nothing away with me except what I stood up in. I don’t know when I shall be able to send, but it will be as soon as I possibly can. Have everything ready, for when I do send I shan’t want my messenger to be kept waiting. And keep a sharp look-out; it may be in the middle of the night. “Philip Lawrence. “Tell any one who asks that I shall be home in about a week; and that you’ve instructions to send all letters on. I don’t want people to think that you’re not in communication with me, or that everything’s not all right. And you’re not to listen to any tales which you may hear; and you’re not to worry, or people will notice it. You understand?” The eyes of the two old people did not leave my face while I was reading. So soon as I lowered the paper Mr. Morley faltered out his question. “Well, sir, what--what do you think of it?” “That it’s a curious epistle. Who brought it?” “That’s more than I can say. There was a knock at the door, and I saw that in the letterbox. I looked out into the street, but there was no one in sight who seemed a likely person to have dropped it in.” “No messenger-boy?” “No, sir, no one of the kind.” “And the keys came with it?” “Yes, sir, in a small brown-paper parcel.” “Addressed to you?” “No, the parcel was addressed to no one. There was nothing on it at all.” “You are sure they are Mr. Philip’s keys?” “Of course they are. Whose should they be? Why--why do you say that?” “Has Mr. Philip been in the habit of sending you typewritten letters?” “He has never done such a thing in his life before.” “In this even the signature is typed--as if he had made up his mind that you should not have a scrap of handwriting which you could recognise. I don’t see why he need to have had such a letter typed at all. Is he himself a typist?” “Not that I know of; I never heard him speak of it.” “Then to have had such a letter typed by some one else was to add to his risk. Why couldn’t he have trusted you with a letter written by his own hand?”