I handed her the book open at the place and watched her face as she read. And one thing her expression revealed beyond any possibility of doubt. She was utterly and completely taken aback, and for some moments simply stared at the jottings in dead silence. Then I saw a sudden gleam in her eye, and a moment later she turned to me and cried, "This wasn't written by Bolton!" It was my turn to stare. "Not written by Bolton!" I exclaimed. "Let me look at it again." Standing there in the middle of the windy road, we quite forgot the temperature, and a passing snow shower even whipped us unnoticed. "Look!" she said. "The writing is thicker and blacker and a little bigger than the other entries." "It was evidently written with a different pencil, or with a blunt pointed pencil. A man writing with a short blunt stump naturally writes a little bigger and blacker. But look at the _t_s and the _r_s, and the capital _P;_ in fact, look at all the letters. They are exactly the same type." "Of course any one trying to copy another man's hand would make his letters the same," she retorted, "but the character isn't the same. Can't you see?" "There is a slight difference," I admitted, "but I really can't honestly say I see any sufficient ground for putting this down as a fake. Besides, what do you suppose it is--a practical joke?" "No, of course not. It was written by the real murderer to put people off the scent." I tried not to smile, but I am afraid I did. "Another brilliant guess!" I said, and then hastened to add, "But a most ingenious one and quite possibly--very probably, in fact, you are right." But she saw through my compliments, and I felt rather than observed an instant change in her. "Oh, you may be right," she said, and handed me back the pocket book. "Or wrong," I replied, "but I mean to try and discover which." Instead of asking me what I meant to do, as I feared and expected, she walked by my side very thoughtfully and in silence. I gave her a moment or two to put the question which never came, and then changed the subject. "And have you discovered anything?" I asked. "Not discovered--only guessed," she answered with a smile in her eyes, half defiant, half mischievous. "And what have you guessed?" "Oh, I won't trouble you with more guesses. I must find something out first--something really convincing, like that note book." I was a little piqued, but I merely laughed and said, "Well, we'll see!" By this time we were quite near the house. "Won't you come in and have lunch with us?" she asked. The temptation was strong, but the scent seemed too warm to lose, and I said I must be back for lunch at home. We stopped, and as she looked at me I noticed in her eyes what first seemed to be doubt and anxiety and a moment later to become resolution.