The next day I received a letter addressed in modish, angular
penmanship, which, before I opened it, I felt sure had come from Mrs.
Cunningham. It ran as follows,
Mr. HERBERT Burroughs,
Dear Sir: Yes, I have lost a gold bag, and I have known all along that
it is the one the newspapers are talking so much about in connection
with the Crawford case. I know, too, that you are the detective on the
case, and though I can't imagine how you did it, I think it was awfully
clever of you to trace the bag to me, for I'm sure my name wasn't in it
anywhere. As I say, the bag is mine, but I didn't kill Mr. Crawford, and
I don't know who did. I would go straight to you, and tell you all about
it, but I am afraid of detectives and lawyers, and I don't want to be
mixed up in the affair anyway. But I am going to see Miss Lloyd, and
explain it all to her, and then she can tell you. Please don't let my
name get in the papers, as I hate that sort of prominence.
Very truly yours,