Next, reaching for the telephone which stood by his elbow, I gave the number of the Vicarage. Melchett must have been still trying to trace the call, for I was told that the number was engaged. Asking them to call me, I put the instrument down again.
I put my hand into my pocket to look at the paper I had picked up once more. With it, I drew out the note that I had found in the letter box and which was still unopened.
Its appearance was horribly familiar. It was the same handwriting as the anonymous letter that had come that afternoon.
I tore it open.
I read it once—twice—unable to realize its contents.
I was beginning to read it a third time when the telephone rang. Like a man in a dream I picked up the receiver and spoke.
“Hullo?”
“Hullo.”
“Is that you, Melchett?”
“Yes, where are you? I’ve traced that call. The number is—”
“I know the number.”
“Oh, good! Is that where you are speaking from?”
“Yes.”
“What about that confession?”
“I’ve got the confession all right.”
“You mean you’ve got the murderer?”