“Same old muck.”

She dropped it on to the fire. With a quick gesture that hurt my back I jerked it off again just before it caught.

“Don’t,” I said. “We may need it.”

“Need it?”

“For the police.”

V

Superintendent Nash came to see me the following morning. From the first moment I saw him I took a great liking to him. He was the best type of C.I.D. county superintendent. Tall, soldierly, with quiet reflective eyes and a straightforward unassuming manner.

He said: “Good morning, Mr. Burton, I expect you can guess what I’ve come to see you about.”

“Yes, I think so. This letter business.”

He nodded.

“I understand you had one of them?”

“Yes, soon after we got here.”

“What did it say exactly?”

I thought a minute, then conscientiously repeated the wording of the letter as closely as possible.

The superintendent listened with an immovable face, showing no signs of any kind of emotion. When I had finished, he said:

“I see. You didn’t keep the letter, Mr. Burton?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t. You see, I thought it was just an isolated instance of spite against newcomers to the place.”

The superintendent inclined his head comprehendingly.

He said briefly: “A pity.”

“However,” I said, “my sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her putting it in the fire.”

“Thank you, Mr. Burton, that was thoughtful of you.”

I went across to my desk and unlocked the drawer in which I had put it. It was not, I thought, very suitable for Partridge’s eyes. I gave it to Nash.

He read it through. Then he looked up and asked me:

“Is this the same in appearance as the last one?”

“I think so—as far as I can remember.”

“The same difference between the envelope and the text?”

“Yes,” I said. “The envelope was typed. The letter itself had printed words pasted on to a sheet of paper.”

Nash nodded and put it in his pocket. Then he said:

“I wonder, Mr. Burton, if you would mind coming down to the station with me? We could have a conference there and it would save a good deal of time and overlapping.”

“Certainly,” I said. “You would like me to come now?”

“If you don’t mind.”

There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it.

I said:

“Do you think you’ll be able to get to the bottom of this?”

Nash nodded with easy confidence.

“Oh yes, we’ll get to the bottom of it all right. It’s a question of time and routine. They’re slow, these cases, but they’re pretty sure. It’s a matter of narrowing things down.”

“Elimination?” I said.

“Yes. And general routine.”

“Watching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints, all that?”

He smiled. “As you say.”

At the police station I found Symmington and Griffith were already there. I was introduced to a tall lantern-jawed man in plain clothes, Inspector Graves.

“Inspector Graves,” explained Nash, “has come down from London to help us. He’s an expert on anonymous letter cases.”