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Minks, so far as he knew, was not actually in mourning, but somebody for whom he ought to be in mourning might die any day, and meanwhile, he felt, the band conveyed distinction. It suited a man of letters. It also protected the hat. 'Thank'ee, said his chief as luncheon time drew near; 'and now, if you'll get those letters typed, you might leave 'em here for me on your way home to sign.
On the hall-table lay a typed envelope with the Paris postage-mark. She opened it carelessly, and saw that the letter-head bore Mr. Spearman's office address. The words beneath spun round before her eyes.... "Has notified us that he is at your disposal... carry out your wishes... arriving in Paris... fix an appointment with his lawyers...." Nick it was Nick the words were talking of!
He thanked Lerton once more and departed. Out in the corridor and some distance from the Lerton office, he took from his pocket the note he had written on Lerton's private typewriter and glanced at it quickly. Farland was merely verifying what he had noticed as he had typed the note. "That was a lucky hunch about that typewriter," he told himself.
I've typed out a letter. Just pack them up and address them to her. I can't bear to take them now I know the truth poor girl!" And he handed the gems over to me, together with a small wooden box.
She knew his writing quite well, for he had sent her other letters. This writing was, indeed, something like his, but certainly not his. It might be a clerk's; the letter was typed on his office paper. To say that she was actually disturbed by these little rills of doubt would not be quite true. Still, they did arise in her mind, and left her not perfectly at ease.
What did the piece of driftwood have to do with it, and what connection was there between the wood and the typed figures? And, lastly, what was it all about, anyhow? Some of the items taken singly were quite susceptible of explanation, but I could not put forward any solution that covered them in toto.
A very amusing muddle, with lots of doubles entendres, and heaps of adverbial explanation in small print. That sort of thing. I had it typed, and I said, "Price, my boy, there's more Mr. Cloyster in this than ever Mr. Cloyster could have put into it." And the editor of the Strawberry Leaf printed it next issue as a matter of course.
And her idea of making herself over into something useful was not working out particularly well. She spent two hours a day, at a down-town school, struggling with shorthand, and her writing-table was always littered with papers covered with queer hooks and curves, or with typed sheets beginning: "Messrs Smith and Co.,: Dear Sirs."
There was also a postscript to the effect that though The Billow carried no free-list, it took great pleasure in sending him a complimentary subscription for the ensuing year. After that experience, Martin typed at the top of the first sheet of all his manuscripts: "Submitted at your usual rate." Some day, he consoled himself, they will be submitted at my usual rate.
It bore the type-written address, "Police Office, Scotland Yard," and the postal stamp was "West Strand, January 18, 9 p.m." Within, a small slip of paper, also typed, gave this message: "About Stowmarket. David Hume Frazer killed cousin. Cousin talked girl in road. Girl waited wood. David Hume Frazer met girl in wood after 1 a.m." Brett jumped up in instant excitement.
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