"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?"
The lad turned to a book which stood with others in a rack over the
chimney-piece, and tapped it with his finger.
"Yes, sir--because Mr. Bartle gave orders when I first came here that a
register of every letter sent out was to be kept--I've always entered
them in this book."
"And this letter you're talking about--to whom was it addressed?"
"Miss Mallathorpe, Normandale Grange, sir."
"You went and posted it at once?"
"That very minute, sir."
"Was it soon afterwards that Mr.
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