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That the
writing was a man's, Marcus had no doubt, though he would have been
puzzled to give the reasons which led him to that conclusion. The
envelope was the ordinary prepaid-stamped one issued by the Government,
and therefore could not contribute to the identification of the
anonymous writer. The superscription was in the same backhand, and was
peculiar in nothing but a small curved nourish, like Hogarth's line of
beauty, beneath the words, "New York. City."
"The rascal has carefully disguised his hand," said Marcus, "and does
not mean to be found out. I can say nothing more positive, than that it
is written by somebody who has never corresponded with me. My memory of
autographs happens to be pretty tenacious."
"And I am positive that it is written by no acquaintance of mine, or of
my daughter's, for we have none--except you. As the case now stands, it
is a mystery, not worth the exploring."
"Again I differ with you," said Marcus. "Whoever wrote this false
letter, has powerful motives of hostility to me or you, or,
perhaps--worse still--to your daughter.


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