Collingwood sat down in his grandfather's chair, at a big table, piled high with books and papers, which stood in the middle of the floor. "Did my grandfather seem at all unwell when he went out?" he asked. "No, sir. He had been coughing a bit more than usual--that was all. There was a fog came on about five o'clock, and he said it bothered him." "What had he been doing during the afternoon? Anything particular?" "Nothing at all particular before half-past four or so, sir." Collingwood took a closer look at Jabez Naylor. He saw that he was an observant lad, evidently of superior intelligence--a good specimen of the sharp town lad, well trained in a modern elementary school. "Oh?" he said. "Nothing particular before half-past four, eh? Did he do something particular after half-past four?" "There was a post came in just about then, sir," answered Jabey. "There was an American letter--that's it, sir--just in front of you. Mr. Bartle read it, and asked me if we'd got a good clear copy of Hopkinson's _History of Barford_. I reminded him that there was a copy amongst the books that had been bought from Mallathorpe's Mill some time ago." "Books that had belonged to Mr. John Mallathorpe, who was killed?" asked Collingwood, who was fully acquainted with the chimney accident. "Yes, sir, Mr. Bartle bought a lot of books that Mr. Mallathorpe had at the Mill--local books. They're there in that corner: they were put there when I fetched them, and he'd never looked over them since, particularly." "Well--and this _History of Barford_? You reminded him of it?" "I got it out for him, sir. He sat down--where you're sitting--and began to examine it. He said something about it being a nice copy, and he'd get it off that night--that's it, sir: I didn't read it, of course. And then he took some papers out of a pocket that's inside it, and I heard him say 'Bless my soul--who'd have thought it!'" Collingwood picked up the book which the boy indicated--a thick, substantially bound volume, inside one cover of which was a linen pocket, wherein were some loose maps and plans of Barford. "These what he took out?" he asked, holding them up. "Yes, sir, but there was another paper, with writing on it--a biggish sheet of paper--written all over." "Did you see what the writing was? Did you see any of it?" "No, sir--only that it was writing, I was dusting those shelves out, over there; when I heard Mr. Bartle say what he did. I just looked round, over my shoulder--that was all." "Was he reading this paper that you speak of?" "Yes, sir--he was holding it up to the gas, reading it." "Do you know what he did with it?" "Yes, sir--he folded it up and put it in his pocket." "Did he say any more--make any remark?" "No, sir. He wrote a letter then." "At once?" "Yes, sir--straight off. But he wasn't more than a minute writing it. Then he sent me to post it at the pillar-box, at the end of the Alley." "Did you read the address?"