I found the first fragment on a Tuesday in November, 1887, folded inside a copy of Burke's Peerage that Sir Thomas had been reading the week before he stopped recognizing my name.
The paper was the quality he preferred for private correspondence — heavy, cream-laid, with a watermark of a lion rampant that I had helped him select at the stationer's on Regent Street three years earlier. The handwriting was his, though shaken, as if his hand had been traveling faster than his mind could direct it. The words were not in English. They were in a cipher I did not know, but the...
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