It was almost unimaginable that the letter should have come again to his hand.

He realized the importance and significance of the sheet of paper with the swiftness of a lightning flash; but beyond the intelligence conveyed by the letter itself there was still the darkness to grope in.
His wits had never worked so rapidly in his life; he felt his heart beating uncomfortably; the perspiration broke out upon his forehead, and he drew out his handkerchief and mopped his face.
"It's certainly very curious, very curious indeed," he said with all the calmness he could muster.

"But it doesn't tell us much." "It wasn't intended to tell anything," said Mrs.Owen.

"Whoever wrote that letter, as I told you, was troubled about Sylvia.

I reckon it was a man; and I guess it's fair to assume that he felt under obligations, but hadn't the nerve to face 'em as obligations.