"The Gerrard Street mystery (1888) by John Charles Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dent John Charles)

at home.
No sooner had the train glided out of the station than I settled myself in
my seat, drew the tantalizing letter from my pocket, and proceeded to read and
re-read it again and again. A very few perusals sufficed to fix its contents
in my memory, so that I could repeat every word with my eyes shut. Still I
continued to scrutinize the paper, the penmanship, and even the tint of the
ink. For what purpose, do you ask? For no purpose, except that I hoped, in
some mysterious manner, to obtain more light on the subject. No light came,
however. The more I scrutinized and pondered, the greater was my
mystification. The paper was a simple sheet of white letter-paper, of the kind
ordinarily used by my uncle in his correspondence. So far as I could see,
there was nothing peculiar about the ink. Anyone familiar with my uncle's
writing could have sworn that no hand but his had penned the lines His
well-known signature, a masterpiece of involved hieroglyphics, was there in
all its indistinctness, written as no one but himself could ever have written
it. And yet, for some unaccountable reason, I was half disposed to suspect
forgery. Forgery! What nonsense. Anyone clever enough to imitate Richard
Yardington's handwriting would have employed his talents more profitably than
indulging in a mischievous and purposeless jest. Not a bank in Toronto but
would have discounted a note with that signature affixed to it.
Desisting from all attempts to solve these problems, I then tried to fathom
the meaning of other points in the letter. What misfortune had happened to mar
the Christmas festivities at my uncle's house? And what could the reference to
my cousin Alice's sorrows mean? She was not ill. That, I thought, might be
taken for granted. My uncle would hardly have referred to her illness as "one
of the sorrows she had to endure lately". Certainly, illness may be regarded
in the light of a sorrow; but "sorrow" was not precisely the word which a
straightforward man like Uncle Richard would have applied to it. I could
conceive of no other cause of affliction in her case. My uncle was well, as
was evinced by his having written the letter, and by his avowed intention to
meet me at the station. Her father had died long before I started for
Australia. She had no other near relation except myself, and she had no cause
for anxiety, much less for "sorrow", on my account. I thought it singular,
too, that my uncle, having in some strange manner become acquainted with my
movements, had withheld the knowledge from Alice. It did not square with my
preconceived ideas of him that he would derive any satisfaction from taking
his niece by surprise.
All was a muddle together, and as my temples throbbed with the intensity of
my thoughts, I was half disposed to believe myself in a troubled dream from
which I should presently awake. Meanwhile, on glided the train.
A heavy snow-storm delayed us for several hours, and we reached Hamilton too
late for the mid-day express for Toronto. We got there, however, in time for
the accommodation leaving at 3:15 P.M., and we would reach Toronto at 5:05. I
walked from one end of the train to the other in hopes of finding some one I
knew, from whom I could make enquiries about home. Not a soul. I saw several
persons whom I knew to be residents of Toronto, but none with whom I had ever
been personally acquainted, and none of them would be likely to know anything
about my uncle's domestic arrangements. All that remained to be done under
these circumstances was to restrain my curiosity as well as I could until
reaching Toronto. By the by, would my uncle really meet me at the station,