“ Her writing ,” he said in a whisper. “She must have gone out and posted it last night, just before—before—”
He ripped open the envelope and drew out a thick enclosure. Then he looked up sharply.
“You’re sure you shut the window?” he said.
“Quite sure,” I said, surprised. “Why?”
“All this evening I’ve had a queer feeling of being watched, spied upon. What’s that—?”
He turned sharply. So did I. We both had the impression of hearing the latch of the door give ever so slightly. I went across to it and opened it. There was no one there.
“Nerves,” murmured Ackroyd to himself.
He unfolded the thick sheets of paper, and read aloud in a low voice.
“ My dear, my very dear Roger —A life calls for a life. I see that—I saw it in your face this afternoon. So I am taking the only road open to me. I leave to you the punishment of the person who has made my life a hell upon earth for the last year. I would not tell you the name this afternoon, but I propose to write it to you now. I have no children or near relations to be spared, so do not fear publicity. If you can, Roger, my very dear Roger, forgive me the wrong I meant to do you, since when the time came, I could not do it after all. …”