"Then, the day after that there was a barrel-organ, with a mangy-looking
monkey on it. He was the worst of all. Profane, too, _he_ was. Kept
mixing up sacred tunes and comic songs: 'Rock of Ages,' 'Bill Bailey,'
'Cujus Animal,' and 'Over the Garden Wall.' And when I tried to move him
on, that little blighter of a monkey made a run at my leg; and then the
man grinned and started playing, 'Wait till the Clouds roll by.' I tell
you, it was fair sickening."

He wiped his brow at the recollection, and the inspector smiled
appreciatively.

"And that was the last of them?" said the latter; and as the porter
nodded sulkily, he asked: "Should you recognize the note that the
Italian gave you?"

"I should," answered the porter with frosty dignity.

The inspector bustled out of the room, and returned a minute later with
a letter-case in his hand.

"This was in his breast-pocket," said he, laying the bulging case on the
table, and drawing up a chair. "Now, here are three letters tied
together. Ah! this will be the one." He untied the tape, and held out a
dirty envelope addressed in a sprawling, illiterate hand to "Mr.
Hartridge, Esq." "Is that the note the Italian gave you?"

The porter examined it critically. "Yes," said he; "that is the one."

The inspector drew the letter out of the envelope, and, as he opened it,
his eyebrows went up.

"What do you make of that, Doctor?" he said, handing the sheet to
Thorndyke.

Thorndyke regarded it for a while in silence, with deep attention. Then
he carried it to the window, and, taking his lens from his pocket,
examined the paper closely, first with the low power, and then with the
highly magnifying Coddington attachment.

"I should have thought you could see that with the naked eye," said the
inspector, with a sly grin at me. "It's a pretty bold design."

"Yes," replied Thorndyke; "a very interesting production. What do you
say, Mr. Marchmont?"

The solicitor took the note, and I looked over his shoulder. It was
certainly a curious production. Written in red ink, on the commonest
notepaper, and in the same sprawling hand as the address, was the
following message: "You are given six days to do what is just. By the
sign above, know what to expect if you fail." The sign referred to was a
skull and crossbones, very neatly, but rather unskilfully, drawn at the
top of the paper.

"This," said Mr. Marchmont, handing the document to Mr. Curtis,
"explains the singular letter that