She had evidently been running and met me half cross and half laughing
and divinely flushed after her stern chase.
"I've been chasing you for miles!" she cried. "Why ever didn't you
look round?"
"But I thought you were coming straight from home!"
"I never said so, and I wasn't! I've been somewhere else first."
There seemed to be a hint of something significant in these last
words, but I was so eager to come to the point that I never paused to
question her.
"I am dreadfully sorry," I said, "but I was thinking so hard I never
thought of looking round. I have got some news for you."
Her eyes sparkled.
"What is it?" she cried.
"Bolton's pocket book has been found among the rocks, and this was his
last entry before he was killed."
I handed her the book open at the place and watched her face as she read.
And one thing her expression revealed beyond any possibility of doubt.
She was utterly and completely taken aback, and for some moments simply
stared at the jottings in dead silence. Then I saw a sudden gleam in her
eye, and a moment later she turned to me and cried,
"This wasn't written by Bolton!"
It was my turn to stare.
"Not written by Bolton!" I exclaimed. "Let me look at it again."
Standing there in the middle of the windy road, we quite forgot the
temperature, and a passing snow shower even whipped us unnoticed.
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