CHAPTER XIXStefan the Fox!
I looked up from the long, long letter.
“But alas,” I managed to comment, “the fellow never got the letter mailed?”
“Hardly,” Simon Stannard, seated across the desk from me, grunted. “For you have it there. In fact, George, as you’ll observe, he never even finished it!”
“So I do notice! But now tell me, Uncle—where do you suppose the skull is, that he speaks ab—but wait—now this letter from this Rumanian—” I slid the last foolscap sheet of the letter to the rear of the whole sheaf. “This Rumanian consul—he speaks of? You got that, of course?”
He made no reply, but reached into a drawer, and withdrew a sheet of paper mottled as though with yellow. As he slid it over to me, I saw that it was a sheet of white bond stationery on which he had pasted up a number o
