CHAPTER XIIMargaret Moray received Miss Silver’s letter at breakfast on the following day. It was a dark morning, and she took it to the window to get a better light. Then, still without opening it, she put it down before her husband.
“What do you make of it, Charles?”
He gave it his frowning attention, asked to have the light switched on, and slanted the envelope towards it, flap uppermost.
“Well, I should say it had been opened.”
“So should I.”
She slit it carefully at the bottom end and read the innocuous missive aloud.
Charles Moray looked up from his porridge.
“What were you to do about it?”
“Let Frank Abbott have it, and send her a postcard to let her know whether we think it’s been tampered with. The postscript about the wool is the cue. If I was quite sure, I was to say, ‘H
