“That’s cheerful reading,” I observed, when I had read the label to an end. I passed it to Mr. Paine.
“It is curious,” he admitted. “In which respect it’s of a piece with all the rest.”
When Emily read it her eyes and mouth opened as wide as they very well could do.
“I never!” she cried. “Isn’t it mysterious?”
“What shall I do?” I asked, when the chain and key had been returned to me.
Mr. Paine considered.
“You had better do as instructed—burn the label; that is, after we have taken a copy. There is nothing said against your doing that; and, if you have a copy, it will prevent your memory playing you false. As for the key itself—will it do you any harm to fasten it to your waist in the manner directed?”
“Except that it’s a bit too mysterious for my taste. Some folks like mysteries; I don’t.”
“My dear,” cut in Emily, “they’re the salt of life!”
“Then I don’t like salt. Perhaps it’s because I’m a plain person that I like plain things. Here’s more mystery.”
The only thing left in the box was an envelope. When I took it out I found that on it this was written:
“This envelope is for Mary Blyth, and is not to be opened by her till she is inside 84, Camford Street.”
I showed it to Mr. Paine, who was copying the label.
“What shall I do with that?”
