For it was the handwriting of the subject of his thoughts--Robert Turold.
With the stiff movement of an ageing man he picked up the letter and went upstairs again.

In some subtle way the room seemed changed.

He had a sudden inexplicable sensation of nervousness and depression.

Shaking it off with an effort, he opened the envelope in his hand with an odd reluctance--the feeling that he was prying into something which was no concern of his.

He drew out the single grey sheet and unfolded it.