Aunt Josephine seemed nonplussed at first.  I thought she was going to refuse to allow Craig to proceed.  But finally she assented.

Kennedy lost no time.  He went to a desk where Elaine generally sat, and quickly took out several typewritten letters.  He examined them closely, rejecting one after another, until finally he came to one that seemed to interest him.

He separated it from the rest and fell to studying it, comparing it with the paper from the bomb and the note which Long Sin had received from the Clutching Hand.  Then he folded the letter so that both the signature and the address could not be read by us.

A portion of the letter, I recall, read something like this: 

“This is his contention:  whereas truth is the only goal and matter is non-existent—­

“Look at this, Walter,” remarked Craig, with difficulty restraining himself, “What do you make of it?”

A glance at the typewriting was sufficient to show me that Kennedy had indeed made an important discovery.  The writing of the letter which he had just found in Elaine’s desk corresponded in every respect with that in the Clutching Hand note and that on the bomb formula.  In each instance there were the same faintness, the same crooked alignment, the same battered appearance of all the letter T’s.

We stared at each other almost too dazed to speak.

. . . . . . . .

At that moment we were startled by the sudden appearance of Elaine herself, who had come in unexpectedly from her shopping expedition.

She entered the room carrying in her arms a huge bunch of roses which she had evidently just received.  Her face was half buried in the fragrant blossoms, but was fairer than even they in their selected elegance.

The moment she saw Craig, however, she stopped short with a look of great surprise.  Kennedy, on his part, who was seated at the desk still tracing out the similarities of the letters, stood up, half hesitating what to say.  He bowed and she returned his salutation with a very cool nod.

Her keen eye had not missed the fact that several of her letters lay scattered over the top of the desk.

“What are you doing with my letters, Mr. Kennedy?” she asked, in an astonished tone, evidently resenting the unceremoniousness with which he had apparently been overhauling her correspondence.

As guardedly as possible, Kennedy met her inquiry, which I could not myself blame her for making.

“I beg pardon, Miss Dodge,” he said, “but a matter has just come up which necessitated merely a cursory examination of some purely formal letters which might have an important bearing on the discovery of the Clutching Hand.  Your Aunt had no idea where you were, nor of when you might return, and the absolute necessity for haste in such an important matter is my only excuse for examining a few minor letters without first obtaining your permission.”