The Gerrard Street Mystery and Other Weird Tales | Page 6

playing me a trick. A moment's reflection
showed me that such a thing was impossible. Here was the envelope,
with the Toronto post-mark of the 9th of December, at which time he
had been with me on board the Persia, on the Banks of Newfoundland.
Besides, he was a gentleman, and would not have played so poor and
stupid a joke upon a guest. And, to put the matter beyond all possibility

of doubt, I remembered that I had never mentioned my cousin's name
in his hearing.
I handed him the letter. He read it carefully through twice over, and
was as much mystified at its contents as myself; for during our passage
across the Atlantic I had explained to him the circumstance under
which I was returning home.
By what conceivable means had my uncle been made aware of my
departure from Melbourne? Had Mr. Redpath written to him, as soon as
I acquainted that gentleman with my intentions? But even if such were
the case, the letter could not have left before I did, and could not
possibly have reached Toronto by the 9th of December. Had I been
seen in England by some one who knew me, and had not one written
from there? Most unlikely; and even if such a thing had happened, it
was impossible that the letter could have reached Toronto by the 9th. I
need hardly inform the reader that there was no telegraphic
communication at that time. And how could my uncle know that I
would take the Boston route? And if he had known, how could he
foresee that I would do anything so absurd as to call at the Boston
post-office and inquire for letters? "I will meet you at the G. W. R.
station." How was he to know by what train I would reach Toronto,
unless I notified him by telegraph? And that he expressly stated to be
unnecessary.
We did no more sight-seeing. I obeyed the hint contained in the letter,
and sent no telegram. My friend accompanied me down to the Boston
and Albany station, where I waited in feverish impatience for the
departure of the train. We talked over the matter until 11.30, in the vain
hope of finding some clue to the mystery. Then I started on my journey.
Mr. Gridley's curiosity was aroused, and I promised to send him an
explanation immediately upon my arrival 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
straight-forward 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