The name of his correspondent was literally on the tip of
his mind. Yet he could not utter it. And so at last he broke the seal.
Before reading the note he glanced at the signature: "Valentine."
Julian was surprised. He knew now why he had seemed to remember, yet had
not actually remembered, the handwriting. Regarding it again, he found it
curiously changed from Valentine's usual hand, yet containing many points
of resemblance. After a while he came to the conclusion that it was like
a bad photograph of the original, imitating, closely enough, all the main
points of the original, yet leaving out all the character, all the
delicacy of it. For Valentine's handwriting had always seemed to Julian
to express his nature. It was rather large and very clear, but delicate,
the letters exquisitely formed, the lines perfectly even, neither
depressed nor slanting upwards. This note was surely much more coarsely
written than usual. And yet, of course, it was Valentine's writing.
Julian wondered he had not known. He read the note at last:
"DEAR JULIAN,
"I am coming over to see you this afternoon about five, and shall try and
persuade Rip to restore me to his confidence. I hope you will be in. Are
you tired after last night's experiences? I never felt better.
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