“You have only a few hundred yards to go,” said he—­I was living in chambers in the Albany.  “You may as well stay and have a quiet cigar with me.  I very much want your advice.”

I relapsed into an arm-chair and lit one of his excellent Matronas.  When he had returned from seeing the last of his guests out, he drew a letter from his dress-jacket and sat down opposite to me.

“This is an anonymous letter which I received this morning,” said he.  “I want to read it to you and to have your advice.”

“You are very welcome to it for what it is worth.”

“This is how the note runs:  `Sir,—­I should strongly advise you to keep a very careful watch over the many valuable things which are committed to your charge.  I do not think that the present system of a single watchman is sufficient.  Be upon your guard, or an irreparable misfortune may occur.’”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all.”

“Well,” said I, “it is at least obvious that it was written by one of the limited number of people who are aware that you have only one watchman at night.”

Ward Mortimer handed me the note, with a curious smile.  “Have you an eye for handwriting?” said he.  “Now, look at this!” He put another letter in front of me.  “Look at the c in `congratulate’ and the c in `committed.’  Look at the capital I. Look at the trick of putting in a dash instead of a stop!”

“They are undoubtedly from the same hand—­with some attempt at disguise in the case of this first one.”

“The second,” said Ward Mortimer, “is the letter of congratulation which was written to me by Professor Andreas upon my obtaining my appointment.”

I stared at him in amazement.  Then I turned over the letter in my hand, and there, sure enough, was “Martin Andreas” signed upon the other side.  There could be no doubt, in the mind of anyone who had the slightest knowledge of the science of graphology, that the Professor had written an anonymous letter, warning his successor against thieves.  It was inexplicable, but it was certain.

“Why should he do it?” I asked.

“Precisely what I should wish to ask you.  If he had any such misgivings, why could he not come and tell me direct?”

“Will you speak to him about it?”

“There again I am in doubt.  He might choose to deny that he wrote it.”

“At any rate,” said I, “this warning is meant in a friendly spirit, and I should certainly act upon it.  Are the present precautions enough to insure you against robbery?”

“I should have thought so.  The public are only admitted from ten till five, and there is a guardian to every two rooms.  He stands at the door between them, and so commands them both.”

“But at night?”

“When the public are gone, we at once put up the great iron shutters, which are absolutely burglar-proof.  The watchman is a capable fellow.  He sits in the lodge, but he walks round every three hours.  We keep one electric light burning in each room all night.”