written it. And yet, for some unaccountable reason, I was half disposed
to suspect forgery. Forgery! What nonsense. Anyone clever enough to
imitate Richard Yardington's handwriting would have employed his
talents more profitably than indulging in a mischievous and purposeless
jest. Not a bank in Toronto but would have discounted a note with that
signature affixed to it.

Desisting from all attempts to solve these problems, I then tried to
fathom the meaning of other points in the letter. What misfortune had
happened to mar the Christmas festivities at my uncle's house? And what
could the reference to my cousin Alice's sorrows mean? She was not ill.
_That_, I thought, might be taken for granted. My uncle would hardly
have referred to her illness as "one of the sorrows she had to endure
lately." Certainly, illness may be regarded in the light of a sorrow;
but "sorrow" was not precisely the word which a straight-forward man
like Uncle Richard would have applied to it. I could conceive of no
other cause of affliction in her case. My uncle was well, as was evinced
by his having written the letter, and by his avowed intention to meet me
at the station. Her father had died long before I started for Australia.
She had no other near relation except myself, and she had no cause for
anxiety, much less for "sorrow," on my account. I thought it singular,
too, that my uncle, having in some strange manner become acquainted with
my movements, had withheld the knowledge from Alice. It did not square
with my preconceived ideas of him that he would derive any satisfaction
from taking his niece by surprise.

All was a muddle together, and as my temples throbbed with the
intensity of my thoughts, I was half disposed to believe myself in a
troubled dream from which I should presently awake. Meanwhile, on
glided the train.