envelope was perfectly clear and distinct.
I could find no other discrepancies of this kind, but I was positive that the fact of two typewriters having been used, proved chicanery of some sort.
Then, again, I thought perhaps a letter might print clearly at one time and not at another.
As an experiment I went to the typewriter which stood on a side table in the study, and hastily wrote a few lines. I did not copy the letter or the address, but wrote a familiar quotation of some sort, followed by a whole string of letters at random.
Removing my paper I could scarcely believe my eyes as I looked at it. The capital “T,” in every instance, was imperfect in precisely the same manner as the one in Anne’s letter. There was no doubt of this. I wrote a whole line of “T’s” and it was impossible to make the key print it clearly. I made further examination of my slip of paper, and found that every letter had the same peculiarities as the corresponding letters in the mysterious note. They were infinitesimal peculiarities, but they were indubitable. Whoever wrote that letter to Anne Van Wyck, wrote it on that machine that was now before me and no other! But the envelope was just as certainly not addressed on that particular typewriter!
Now what did this mean, I asked myself. And it was a long time before I could grasp the answer, but it finally came to me in a flash of inspiration!
As I had suspected, the letter was a forgery; it had been written on David Van Wyck’s typewriter by some one who could get access to it either secretly or openly; and it had been placed in an envelope which had contained another letter already received and opened by Anne! A plan of diabolical ingenuity! of wicked cleverness!
I still sat by the machine, looking at the letter, when the faintest sound caught my ear and I glanced up to see Mrs. Carstairs gliding toward me. She was just at my elbow and was actually about to snatch the letter from my hand. Indeed her fingers almost touched it.
I stared at her, and said quietly, “What does this mean? Do you want this letter?”
“Oh,” she said, and her face showed a cajoling smile; “I beg your pardon, I do indeed! I thought you were copying it.”
“And what if I was?” I said, partly angry and wholly mystified.
“Don’t be angry,” and her alluring face wore a coaxing expression; “please give me the letter.”
“Give you the letter! Why should I do that?” She went so far as to lay her hand on my shoulder, and said softly: “I know I did wrong. I ought never to have read it, but having read it, I ought never to have shown it.”
“I quite agree to all that, Mrs. Carstairs, but having given it into the hands of the detective, you may not take it back.”
I spoke sternly, even more sharply than I meant to, for I was afraid the woman’s wiles would get that letter away from me against my will.
Then she said: “Mr. Sturgis,—please,”—and no words can express the persuasive power of her look and voice,—” won’t you please do this, then? Copy the letter, if you want to, but give back the original.”
“Why?” I asked, eying her closely.
“Because I’m sure I did wrong to take it; and I want to restore it to Mrs. Van Wyck.”
Now of course I had no intention of granting her request, and I’m almost sure I should not have done so, but I may as well admit that I was greatly relieved that Markham entered the room at that moment.
She turned to the detective with a pretty pout that was almost girlish. “Can’t I have the letter, Mr. Markham?” she begged.
“Have the letter? Certainly not, madam! It is without a doubt a most important clue.”
Surely Mr. Markham was proof against her blandishments, and she realized that there was no hope to regain possession of the letter.
“Oh, well,” she said, lightly, “it’s of no consequence. If it gets Mrs. Van Wyck into trouble, I’m sure I can’t help it. I’ve done all I could to retrieve what was perhaps a mistake on my part. Now, she may take the consequences!”
Mrs. Carstairs glided from the room, seeming not at all disappointed, but actually triumphant “I give her up,” I said to Markham; “do you think she really wanted that letter back for Mrs. Van Wyck’s benefit, or for some other reason?”
“I can’t think of any other reason; I think she found the letter, and brought it to me from a sense of duty. Then I think she felt sorry that she had given such awful evidence against Mrs. Van Wyck and wanted to retract it.”
“Markham,” I said, abruptly, “that letter was written in this room, on David Van Wyck’s own typewriter.”
“Did he write it himself?” Markham seemed absolutely unable to sense my statement, which must have accounted for his absurd remark.
“Of course he didn’t write it himself!” I said impatiently; “but somebody wrote it, on this very typewriter. Here, I’ll prove it to you.”
I showed Markham how I had discovered the fact, and proved to him beyond any doubt, that whoever wrote the letter, it had certainly been done on that machine. There were a dozen little peculiarities that made it impossible to be otherwise.
“What’s the answer?” said Markham, looking absolutely blank.
“I don’t know. If the letter is in good faith, it means an accomplice in the crime. But if the letter is a fake, which I think it is, it is written by somebody who wants to throw suspicion on Mrs. Van Wyck. As you see, the address on the envelope is not done on this machine. That envelope, whatever its contents may have been, was mailed and delivered from the village post-office last Friday. Now, Mr. Detective, solve the problem.”
“To begin with,” said Markham, thoughtfully, “if it was done in this room it must have been done by some member of the family.”
“Or some servant or some guest,” I supplemented him.
“No guest would do it No servant would have opportunity to do it; and beside, the diction and construction of the note is not that of an uneducated person.”
“Well, go over all the members of the household. Of course it was neither David Van Wyck or his wife. Equally of course, it was neither of his children.”
“Why not?”
“Good heavens, man, because that’s impossible! Do you suppose either Morland or Barbara connived with Anne Van Wyck to kill her husband? Absurd!”
“But if the letter is merely a blind?”
“Well, even so. Neither of those two young people would do this thing to incriminate their stepmother. Morland is more than half in love with her; and I refuse to suspect Barbara. Go through with the house guests. Archer and myself would move Heaven and earth to shield Mrs. Van Wyck, rather than to bring trouble to her. Mrs. Stelton and Miss Fordyce are simply out of the question. How about the two Carstairs?”
“That woman was certainly not in league with Mrs. Van Wyck for any purpose; but I’ve already told you that I’m quite ready to suspect her son.”
“The
