to my room.
Locking my door and lighting a tallow candle--the widow objected to kerosene in sleeping rooms,--I opened my letter.
It was brief, very, containing only these words:
CHRIS OLLERN--As you call yourself, unless you wish to disappear as effectually as did Nellie Ewing and Mamie Rutger, you will abandon your present pursuit. A word to the wise is sufficient.
Here was an astonisher, and here was also a clue. I was betrayed, or discovered. But the enemy had showed his hand. I had also made a discovery.
There was an enemy then; there had been foul play; and that enemy was still in the vicinity, as this letter proved.
It was a wily enemy too; the letter would betray nothing as regarded identity. It was printed; the letters were smooth and even, but perfectly characterless. It was a wily enemy, but not quite a wise one, as the sending of such a letter proved.
I did not leave my room again that night, but sat for hours thinking.
The next morn