case there is some little slurring
over the _e_, and a slight defect in the tail of the _r_. There are
fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious."

"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no
doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing keenly at
Holmes with his bright little eyes.

"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr.
Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another little monograph
some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a
subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four
letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all
typewritten. In each case, not only are the _e_'s slurred and the _r_'s
tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens,
that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are there
as well."

Mr. Windibank sprung out of his chair, and picked up his hat. "I cannot
waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he said. "If you
can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it."

"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door.
"I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips, and
glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes, suavely. "There is no
possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent,
and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for
me to solve so simple a question. That's right! Sit down, and let us talk
it over."

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face, and a glitter of
moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he stammered.

"I am very much afraid that it is not; but between ourselves, Windibank,
it was as cruel, and selfish, and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever
came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you
will contradict me if I go wrong."

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast,
like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of
the mantelpiece, and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began
talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.

"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money," said
he, "and he enjoyed the use