"Yes." Sir Richard spoke rather dubiously. "And it will be rather hard to find out that, I fear. You see, naturally a decent man wouldn't spread the fact abroad; and we can hardly go about making open inquiries."
"I suppose not." For a second Anstice was nonplussed, then his face cleared. "But after all, if anyone--one of my patients, for instance, has received one of these charming letters, don't you think I shall find it out? You see, although the average 'decent man,' as you call him, holds firmly to the theory that the place for an anonymous communication is the fire, I'm afraid nine out of ten people can't help wondering, even while they burn it, how much truth there was in the accusation!"
"Just so--but even then----"
"Well, something of that rather uncomfortable wonder, not to say suspicion, is pretty sure to show itself in the manner of the man who's read the letter. Seriously, Sir Richard, if anyone beside yourself has received a testimonial to my character" He spoke ironically now--"I'll guarantee to discover the fact in the course of ten minutes' conversation with him!"
"You may be right, Anstice." Sir Richard did not speak with much conviction. "But for all our sakes I wish we could make certain of the facts either way. You see, should this lie be circulated through the district by means of letters or postcards it is inevitable that the old scandal should be raked up. And in that case Mrs. Carstairs will suffer."
A thought struck Anstice suddenly and he gave it utterance forthwith.
"Sir Richard, I suppose you don't remember whether the handwriting in any of those other letters resembled this in any way? It is not likely, so long afterwards, but still----"
Sir Richard uttered an impatient exclamation.
"By Gad, what an old fool I am! I've got one of the original letters locked away in that desk now--one of the half-dozen or so which reached me when the scandal was at its height. I don't know why I kept it--God knows I hated the sight of it--but somehow I could never bring myself to destroy the thing, hoping against hope that it might some day afford a clue to the identity of the writer."
He busied himself with a bunch of keys for a moment, and finally selected one, with which he unlocked a small drawer at the back of his desk. At first his eagerness prevented him finding what he sought, but presently he brought to light another and rather worn sheet of paper, which he handed to Anstice triumphantly.