The Pocket Diary Found in the Snow | Page 8

which the wagon had
taken its prisoner - if prisoner she was - as soon as they had hoped.
Perhaps the search must be made in the direction from which she had
been brought.
Muller turned back towards the city again. He walked more quickly
now, but his eyes took in everything to the right and to the left of his
path. Near the place where the street divided a bush waved its bare
twigs in the wind. The snow which had settled upon it early in the day
had been blown away by the freshening wind, and just as Muller neared
the bush he saw something white fluttering from one twig. It was a
handkerchief, which had probably hung heavy and lifeless when he had
passed that way before. Now when the wind held it out straight, he saw
it at once. He loosened it carefully from the thorny twigs. A delicate
and rather unusual perfume wafted up to his face. There was more of
the odour on the little cloth than is commonly used by people of good
taste. And yet this handkerchief was far too fine and delicate in texture
to belong to the sort of people who habitually passed along this street.
It must have something to do with the mysterious carriage. It was still
quite dry, and in spite of the fact that the wind had been playing with it,
it had been but slightly torn. It could therefore have been in that
position for a short time only. At the nearest lantern Muller saw that the
monogram on the handkerchief was the same in style and initials as that
on the notebook. It was the letters A. L.
CHAPTER II
THE STORY OF THE NOTEBOOK
It was warm and comfortable in the little room where Muller sat. He
closed the windows, lit the gas, took off his overcoat - Muller was a
pedantically careful person - smoothed his hair and sat down
comfortably at the table. Just as he took up the little book, the attendant
brought the tea, which he proceeded at once to enjoy. He did not take
up his little book again until he had lit himself a cigar. He looked at the

cover of the dainty little notebook for many minutes before he opened
it. It was a couple of inches long, of the usual form, and had a cover of
brown leather. In the left upper corner were the letters A. L. in gold.
The leaves of the book, about fifty in all, were of a fine quality of paper
and covered with close writing. On the first leaves the writing was fine
and delicate, calm and orderly, but later on it was irregular and
uncertain, as if penned by a trembling hand under stress of terror. This
change came in the leaves of the book which followed the strange and
terrible title, "How I was murdered."
Before Muller began to read he felt the covers of the book carefully. In
one of them there was a tiny pocket, in which he found a little piece of
wall paper of a noticeable and distinctly ugly pattern. The paper had a
dark blue ground with clumsy lines of gold on it. In the pocket he
found also a tramway ticket, which had been crushed and then carefully
smoothed out again. After looking at these papers, Muller replaced
them in the cover of the notebook. The book itself was strongly
perfumed with the same odour which had exhaled from the
handkerchief.
The detective did not begin his reading in that part of the book which
followed the mysterious title, as the commissioner had done. He began
instead at the very first words.
"Ah! she is still young," he murmured, when he had read the first lines.
"Young, in easy circumstances, happy and contented."
These first pages told of pleasure trips, of visits from and to good
friends, of many little events of every-day life. Then came some
accounts, written in pencil, of shopping expeditions to the city. Costly
laces and jewels had been bought, and linen garments for children by
the dozen. "She is rich, generous, and charitable," thought the detective,
for the book showed that the considerable sums which had been spent
here had not been for the writer herself. The laces bore the mark, "For
our church"; behind the account for the linen stood the words, "For the
charity school."
Muller began to feel a strong sympathy for the writer of these notices.

She showed an orderly, almost pedantic, character, mingled with
generosity of heart. He turned leaf after leaf until he finally came to the
words, written in intentionally heavy letters, "How I was murdered."
Muller's head sank down lower over these mysterious words, and his
eyes flew through the