“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All right, porter, I will take this myself.’”
“What did he write it with?”
“A pen, sir.”
“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”
“Yes, sir, it was the top one.”
Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.
“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the following hieroglyphic:—
Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.
“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin,
