"Look!" she said. "The writing is thicker and blacker and a little bigger
than the other entries."
"It was evidently written with a different pencil, or with a blunt
pointed pencil. A man writing with a short blunt stump naturally
writes a little bigger and blacker. But look at the _t_s and the _r_s,
and the capital _P;_ in fact, look at all the letters. They are exactly
the same type."
"Of course any one trying to copy another man's hand would make his
letters the same," she retorted, "but the character isn't the same.
Can't you see?"
"There is a slight difference," I admitted, "but I really can't honestly
say I see any sufficient ground for putting this down as a fake. Besides,
what do you suppose it is--a practical joke?"
"No, of course not. It was written by the real murderer to put people off
the scent."
I tried not to smile, but I am afraid I did.
"Another brilliant guess!" I said, and then hastened to add, "But a most
ingenious one and quite possibly--very probably, in fact, you are right."
But she saw through my compliments, and I felt rather than observed an
instant change in her.
"Oh, you may be right," she said, and handed me back the pocket book.
"Or wrong," I replied, "but I mean to try and discover which."
Instead of asking me what I meant to do, as I feared and expected, she
walked by my side very thoughtfully and in silence.
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