CHAPTER XV
Richard Duvall, realizing that the woman he sought had once more eluded him, was for the moment unable to decide what to do next. He was oppressed by a sense of failure. Apparently this enemy of Ruth Morton's was far more resourceful than he had supposed. She had gotten clear away, and there appeared no means by which he could trace her. That the second cab, the one he had hailed, contained Grace, did not of course occur to him. The trail appeared to be hopelessly lost.
Still, his investigations in Miss Ford's room had not been entirely fruitless, although they had also added a startlingly new element to the mystery of the case. Who was the person who had attacked him from the closet? Was it the woman who had just left the house? He did not think so. Nor was it Miss Ford herself. There had been something uncanny about the whole experience; he was by no means certain that his assailant had been a human being at all. And yet, its cries – its fingers, tearing at his throat. He was unable to account for the experience at all, and determined, as soon as possible, to repeat his visit, and sift the matter to the bottom.
He remembered that he had seen two persons in the Ford girl's room, after his hasty retreat. Two women, he thought, outlined against the lighted square of the window. One of these had already left the house. The other, Miss Ford herself, was still there. He determined to interview her at once.
Of course, he told himself, to do so would put her on her guard, but his visit to her room had already done that, and doubtless accounted for her companion's hasty flight. And there was something to be gained, by letting her realize that she was under suspicion. She would at once try to communicate with, to warn, her confederate, and it was in just such ways as this, Duvall's experience told him, that criminals so often betrayed themselves. If, by frightening Miss Ford, he could cause her to flee – to join her companion – the tracing of the latter would become comparatively simple. He went up to the door of No. 162 and rang the bell.
The same woman answered his summons as had answered before. She seemed somewhat uneasy – disturbed.
"I want to see Miss Marcia Ford," Duvall told her.
"Very well, sir. Come in. I will tell Miss Ford. What name, please?"
"Say that Mr. Bradley is calling."
The girl ushered him into a dark parlor, lighted by a single lowered gas jet, and suggestive of the gloom of ages, in its walnut furniture, its dismal pictures and ornaments. He took a seat, and waited for the appearance of Miss Ford.
She arrived in a few moments, a slender, ordinary-looking girl, in white shirtwaist and black skirt.
"You are Mr. Bradley?" she asked, regarding the detective with a look of inquiry.
"Yes. I came to see you about a matter of importance."
"What is it?"
"Who was the woman who just left here – the woman who had just come in with you?" Miss Ford favored the detective with a glassy stare.
"I do not understand you," she exclaimed. "I came home alone. What is the purpose of these questions?"
Duvall felt that he had a shrewd opponent to deal with.
"Are you acquainted with Miss Ruth Morton?" he asked.
"Why – certainly – that is, I know her by reputation, She works for the same company as I do. Why do you ask?"
"Miss Morton has recently been the subject of a shameful persecution. The woman who just left this house is concerned in it. Who is she?"
"I do not know what you are talking about," the girl exclaimed, angrily. "I know nothing about any woman. You must pardon me, Mr. Bradley, if I decline to be questioned in this way any further." She moved toward the door.
"Then you wish me to understand that the woman who just left this house did not come here with you?"
"Understand anything you please. I decline to be questioned any further." With a look of anger she left the room.
Duvall made his way back to the sidewalk, thoroughly satisfied with the results of his visit. The Ford woman, in the first place, had lied. The other woman had been with her, beyond a doubt. Duvall thought of her picture on the wall of Miss Ford's room. The latter's reason for lying was equally clear. She and the woman with her were guilty.
In the second place, Miss Ford now realized fully that she was under direct suspicion. If, this being the case, she failed to take some step that would be fatal to both her confederate and herself, Duvall felt that he would be very much surprised. He made up his mind to keep close watch upon the house.
Suddenly it occurred to him that Grace might be of immense service to him at this juncture. She could follow the Ford girl, unknown, unrecognized, while he himself could not. He decided to call her up at once, and ask her to join him.
At the corner, the lights of a saloon glowed brilliantly. With a final glance at the dark doorway of No. 162, he walked quickly down the street He felt that, if he hurried, he need not be away from his post more than a few moments.
The call to his hotel developed the fact that Grace was not in. There was a lady asking for him, however, the clerk said, an elderly woman, who gave her name as Mrs. Morton. She had just come in, and seemed greatly agitated at not having found him.
The name, Mrs. Morton, filled Duvall with sudden apprehension.
"I'll speak to her, please," he said. A moment later, he recognized the voice of Mrs. Morton over the 'phone.
"Is this Mr. Duvall?"
"Yes."
"This is Mrs. Morton. Your wife came to me, a little while ago, and said that you wanted to see me at your hotel at once. She explained that it was of the utmost importance. Why are you not here?"
"I sent no such message."
"No such message! Then who did?"
"I do not know. You left your daughter alone?"
"Yes."
"Then, Mrs. Morton, I am afraid you have been imposed upon. Wait where you are. I will join you at once."
"Hurry, then, Mr. Duvall. If what you say is true, we do not know what may have happened."
"I will be with you in fifteen minutes."
The astonishing news given to him by Mrs. Morton filled Duvall with alarm. Clearly the supposed message from him had been part of a scheme to get her away from the hotel, to leave Ruth there alone. He scarcely dared think of the consequences. The following of Miss Ford now became a matter of secondary importance. Fearing the worst, he signaled to a passing taxicab, and drove as rapidly as possible to his hotel.
Mrs. Morton awaited him in the lobby. She was in a state of the utmost excitement.
"We must go back to the hotel at once," she cried. "Ruth is there all alone."
"Where is her maid, Nora?"
"I let her go out, this evening."
"Then you should not have left the hotel."
"I would not have done so, but for this imperative message from you."
"What was the message?"
"Your wife, or at least a woman claiming to be your wife, came to see me a little after eight o'clock. She said you had arrested the woman who has been sending these threats to my daughter, and that you needed me at once, to make a charge against her at the police station. I naturally came here immediately."
"The woman who told you this – she couldn't have been my wife. Describe her."
"She was slight, small, neatly but not expensively dressed, with light eyes and hair."
"That was not Mrs. Duvall, but it answers very well the description of the woman we are seeking. What did she do, when you left the hotel?"
"I thought she also left."
"You are not sure of this?"
"No."
"Then we have no time to lose. Come." He escorted Mrs. Morton to a taxicab, and instructed the chauffeur to drive to her hotel at top speed.
Mrs. Morton had very little to say on the way uptown. She was naturally in a state of greatest excitement. Duvall, too, was greatly concerned. He knew that the false message had not been given by Grace. What purpose had the woman in mind, in getting rid of Mrs. Morton? The realization of what might have happened to Ruth alarmed him beyond measure.
The drive to the hotel occupied but a few moments, but to Duvall it seemed hours. When they at last drew up before the hotel door, he sprang to the sidewalk, ordered the chauffeur to wait, and with Mrs. Morton at his side, hurried into the lobby.
"Give me my key," Mrs. Morton cried, pausing for a moment at the desk. Then, with Duvall at her heels, she rushed to the elevator.
As soon as they arrived at the door of the suite, it was apparent that something was wrong. The door stood open. The clerk, with one of the maids, occupied the little parlor. Through the open door of the bedroom Duvall caught a glimpse of Ruth, lying in bed, the figure of a heavily-set, bearded man bending over her.
"Mrs. Bradley!" the clerk exclaimed, as soon as he caught sight of Mrs. Morton. "I'm so glad you have come. Your daughter has had an – an accident!"
Mrs. Morton paid scant attention to his words. She, too, had seen through the doorway the figure of her daughter lying in the bed. With a cry, she passed the clerk unnoticing, and went toward the bedroom door.
"Ruth!" she exclaimed, in an agonized voice, then rushed into the room beyond.
CHAPTER XVI
When Grace Duvall, accompanied by the hotel clerk, found Ruth Morton lying on the floor in the parlor of her suite, her first act had been to call for a doctor.
Her second was to gather the unconscious girl in her arms, and carry her into the adjoining bedroom.
That Ruth was alive, filled Grace with joy. She had feared something far worse might have befallen the girl. Yet it was clear that some terrible shock had operated to reduce her to the condition in which she had been found. What this shock was, Grace could only surmise.
She placed the girl upon the bed, and proceeded to remove her clothing. By the time she had gotten her beneath the sheets, the clerk came in, accompanied by the hotel physician.
The latter, after a hasty examination, turned to Grace with a grave look. "The young woman has experienced a terrible shock of some sort," he said. "She is very weak, and her heart action is bad." He took some tablets from a bottle in his medicine case, and called for a glass of water. "Severe nerve-shock of this sort is a serious matter," he exclaimed. "Sometimes it is fatal, at others the mind may be permanently affected. The young lady must be kept absolutely quiet, of course. We will hope for the best. Give her a tablespoonful of this solution every hour. Force her to take it, even if she does not regain consciousness. I will look in again in an hour or two. But be sure that she is kept absolutely quiet."
Grace sat beside the unconscious girl for a long time in silence. Once she went into the next room and called up her hotel, thinking that Richard might have returned, but he had not. She felt that she could only wait where she was, until some word came from Leary.
The clerk, as soon as Ruth was attended to, had hastened down to the lobby, only to learn that the woman who had gone to Miss Bradley's room had not been seen.
It must have been almost an hour before Grace was informed by one of the bellboys that someone wished to speak to her on the telephone. She did not take the message in Ruth's room, the management having given instructions that no calls were to be transmitted there for fear of arousing the unconscious girl. She went quickly downstairs in the elevator, and repaired to a booth in the lobby. One of the maids had been left to watch over Ruth.
The message was from Leary, as Grace had anticipated.
"Is this you, Mrs. Duvall?" the cabman asked.
"Yes. What have you discovered?"
"The lady got into her cab a little while after you left me, and drove away. I followed, as you told me to do. She drove to an apartment on 96th Street, left her taxicab, and entered. The cab drove away. I'm waiting across the street, in a drug store. The apartment is on the corner, 96th Street and Columbus Avenue. Shall I stay here?"
"Yes. Wait until I come." Grace left the booth, and hunting up the clerk, told him that she was obliged to go out at once.
"Mrs. Morton should be back very soon," she said. "One of the maids is sitting with Miss Ruth. Hadn't you better stay with her, as well?"
The clerk nodded, then saw the doctor coming through the lobby.
"Here's Dr. Benson," he said. "I'll send him up. The young lady will be quite safe, until her mother comes."
Grace bowed to the doctor, then hurried out of the hotel, and jumping into a taxi, ordered the driver to take her to Columbus Avenue and 96th Street. She felt overjoyed, to know that the woman Duvall had been seeking had at last been run to earth. She should, Grace determined, not escape a second time.
At 96th Street, she found Leary, impatiently waiting for her in the doorway of the corner drug store from which he had telephoned. He saw her as soon as she left the cab and, tipping his cap, came forward and joined her.
"She's in there yet, Miss," he whispered, jerking his thumb toward the building on the opposite corner.
Grace glanced in the direction indicated. A somewhat dingy-looking apartment house stood upon the corner; its lower floor occupied by a florist's shop. The entrance was on 96th Street. Leaving Leary on the opposite corner, she crossed the street and entered the vestibule of the building.
The mail boxes on either side contained five names each, indicating that there were ten apartments in the building. Grace looked over the addresses in them carefully, but none of them meant anything to her. None was at all familiar. The name on the torn card had been Ford, but there was no such name among those before her. How was she to tell to which apartment the woman had gone? The situation presented an interesting problem.
Making a list of the names upon a visiting card, Grace determined to try them each in turn. She had observed that the building contained no elevator. She rang one of the bells, and almost at once the clicking of the catch told her that the front door was unlocked. She turned the knob and entered.
The occupants of the two ground floor apartments were named Weinberg and Scully, respectively. Grace tried both doors in succession, asking for Mrs. Weinberg at the one, and for Mrs. Scully at the other. In each case the woman who appeared bore no resemblance to the one she sought, and she was obliged to pretend that she had made a mistake. The doors were at once closed in her face.
It was not until she reached the fourth floor that success rewarded her efforts. The left-hand apartment on this floor had as its tenant a Miss Norman. To Grace's delight, she had scarcely rung the bell, when the woman she had been following appeared, wearing a flowered kimono.
She looked at Grace keenly, suspiciously, but with no sign of recognition. Whether she did not know her, or merely pretended not to do so, Grace was unable to say. After all, it made little difference. Having now located the woman, it was only necessary to get away, upon some pretense or other, and telephone to Richard. She felt highly elated.
"What do you want?" the woman asked, quickly.
"Are you Miss Norman?"
"I am."
"Miss Norman, I have come to try to interest you in the work we are doing on behalf of the suffering people of Poland. The war, as you know – " Grace reeled off this appeal, feeling quite certain that the woman would reject it at once, and thus leave her free to go. But as it turned out, Miss Norman did nothing of the sort.
"I am always interested in worthy charities," she remarked, with a peculiar smile. "Won't you come in?" She held wide the door.
Grace found herself in a quandary. Was this a plot to get her inside the apartment, or was the woman in earnest? It seemed unlikely, and yet, Grace feared the danger, now that she had gone so far, of arousing the other's suspicions by a refusal.
"I – I will come in for a moment," she said, and an instant later found herself in a small, rather poorly furnished living room. The woman closed the door, and followed her. Grace braced herself for a possible attack, but none came.
"Sit down," her hostess said, indicating a chair.
"No. It is too late for that. If you care to subscribe anything – "
"But you must tell me more about your work."
"It is very simple. The money is expended by the Polish Relief Committee, to relieve the starving and destitute sufferers in the war zone."
"I see. It seems a worthy charity. I will think the matter over. Suppose you call again."
Grace began to breathe more freely.
"I will do so, of course," she said, moving toward the door.
The woman preceded her.
"Let me open it," she said. "The catch has a habit of sticking." She fumbled with the lock.
Grace was so completely deceived by the woman's actions that she momentarily relaxed her guard. As her companion drew the door open, Grace bade her good night and started to go. The instant her back was turned, she felt a slender but muscular arm slide about her neck, and she was instantly dragged backward, unable, on account of the pressure upon her throat, to utter a sound.
Her attempt at a cry for help was smothered before it became audible. She saw, as in a dream, the woman before her drive the door to with her shoulder. Then she was whirled backward and thrown violently upon a low couch.
She grasped the arm of her assailant and struggled with all her might, but to no purpose. The woman bent over her, her hands at her throat. Grace's brain reeled. Everything seemed black before her eyes. She gasped, trying in vain to breathe, but the fingers upon her throat were momentarily tightening. Then, almost before she realized it, the objects in the room swam vaguely before her eyes, and she lost consciousness.
PART IV
CHAPTER XVII
Duvall, on his arrival with Mrs. Morton at her apartment, lost no time in finding out from the clerk just what had happened. The story, pieced together, confirmed his worst suspicions.
The woman, after escaping from the house at 162 West 57th Street, had gone at once to Ruth's hotel, followed by Grace. Here she had interviewed Mrs. Morton, represented herself as Grace Duvall, and induced Mrs. Morton to leave the hotel by giving her a fictitious message purporting to be from himself.
Returning, later, to the hotel, she had gone to Ruth Morton's room and attacked her. The nature of that attack, the effect upon the girl, were as yet uncertain. Ruth Morton was still unconscious.
Meanwhile, as he learned from the clerk, Grace had received a telephone message and hurriedly left the hotel. The clerk did not know from whom the message had come.
Duvall went to Ruth Morton's bedroom, and called the doctor aside.
"What is the exact nature of Miss Morton's injuries?" he asked.
"She has no injuries, at least in the sense I think you mean. She is suffering solely from the effects of shock."
"What sort of shock?"
"I do not know, of course. Fright, of some sort, terrible fright, I should say. I am informed that some woman, some enemy of hers, came to this room, and was alone with her."
"There is no evidence of any violence?"
"None whatever. But the effects of shock are often worse than those of actual physical violence. They have frequently been known to cause death."
"You do not, I hope, anticipate anything of the sort in this case."
"I cannot say." The doctor shook his head. "She must have been very weak. Her system is responding very slowly."
Duvall glanced over to where Mrs. Morton hung in agonized silence over her daughter's bed, then went out into the sitting room. It seemed to him well nigh incredible that the woman responsible for all this had been able to move about, to elude pursuit, to carry out her threats, apparently without the least hesitation or fear of capture. His professional pride had received severe shock.
Two means of finding the woman, he felt, were still open to him. One was to trace her through Miss Ford. He did not doubt that, after what he had said to the latter, she would make an immediate attempt to warn her confederate of the danger that threatened her. Of course, the Ford girl might communicate with her companion by telephone, in which event the tracing would be difficult, if not impossible.
The other hope of tracing the woman lay in Grace. Why had she left the hotel so suddenly? He did not of course know the source of the telephone message, and could only surmise that Grace had in some way been able to pick up the woman's trail.
Leaving Mrs. Morton with a few words of encouragement, he made his way to his hotel. There was no news there of Grace, however, and he realized that it was now too late to accomplish anything by returning to the house on 57th Street. Marcia Ford would either have long since retired, or else would have left the house to communicate with the woman who had been with her earlier in the evening. Considerably upset by the events of the past three hours, Duvall retired to his room, and sat down to think the whole matter over.
Proceeding on the assumption that the woman in question, and Miss Ford were acting together, all the events at the studio, the fake telegram, the missing photograph, became intelligible. But the delivery of the letters in Ruth Morton's apartment, the strange attack upon him while searching the Ford girl's room, were by no means so clear. Once more his thoughts reverted to the attic room, the roof of the adjoining house, the problem of effecting an entrance to the Morton apartment through either of the two windows.
And then, as he revolved the problem in his mind, a sudden light came to him. He sprang from his chair with an exclamation of satisfaction. A solution of the whole matter flashed through his brain, a solution at once so simple, and so ingenious, that he wondered he had not thought of it before.
He glanced at his watch. It was midnight. Too late, perhaps, to test the accuracy of his deductions. Nor did he feel at all easy in his mind regarding Grace. Something must have happened to her, he feared, to keep her out so late, with no word to him concerning her movements. He went to the 'phone, and calling up the office, inquired whether anything had been heard of Mrs. Duvall.
"No," the night clerk informed him. Mrs. Duvall had not been heard from, nor had she sent any message. But a note had just been left for her. He would send it up.
Duvall awaited the arrival of the note with the utmost impatience. A message for Grace. From whom? What could it mean? A few moments later one of the bellboys thrust into his hand a letter, written on the note paper of the hotel.
He regarded the scrawling and ill-written superscription with apprehension, then tore open the envelope and proceeded to read the contents of the note.
"Dear Madam," it said. "I waited till nearly midnight. When you did not come, I thought you must have gone out some other way, so came back to the hotel. I hope I did right. Respectfully yours, Martin Leary." Duvall stared at the words before him with a look of alarm. Who was Martin Leary? And where had he waited for Grace until nearly midnight? And, above all, why had she not returned? Had some accident, some danger befallen her? The circumstances made it seem highly probable.
There was but one thing to do – to question the night clerk, and find out, if possible, who Leary was. He rushed to the elevator and made his way to the lobby with all speed.
"Who left this note for Mrs. Duvall?" he asked of the clerk.
"Why," – the man paused for a moment – "one of the cabmen, I believe."
"Is his name Leary – Martin Leary?"
"Yes. It was Leary, come to think of it. Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Duvall."
"I'll know later. Where is Leary now?"
"Couldn't say, sir. You might ask the cab starter?"
Almost before the clerk had finished speaking, Duvall had darted across the lobby and made his way to the taxicab office at the door.
"Taxi, sir?" the man asked. "Do you know a chauffeur named Martin Leary?" exclaimed Duvall.
"Yes, sir. One of our regular men, sir."
"Where is he?"
The starter glanced along the row of taxicabs.
"He's turned in for the night, sir. Left for the garage some time ago. He's been on duty since early this morning."
"Where is the garage?"
"On Lexington Avenue, sir, near 30th Street."
"Does Leary sleep there?"
"No, sir. I don't think so, sir. They would know at the garage, I guess."
"Very well. Get me a cab. I want to be taken there at once."
The starter called to one of the drivers, and a few moments later Duvall was being driven at a rapid rate toward the garage.
His inquiries, on his arrival there, developed the fact that Leary had left for his home, on Second Avenue, some little time before. Duvall secured the address, and once more set out.
He felt greatly alarmed at Grace's failure to put in an appearance. Something must have happened to her. Clearly the case was going very much against him – the woman's second escape – the attack on Ruth Morton – now the disappearance of Grace. He felt that the time had come for action of a quick and drastic nature.
Leary lived with his wife and two children on the third floor of a Second Avenue tenement. Hastily climbing the two flights of dark steps, Duvall rapped on the door. He was overjoyed when it was opened by a man whom he judged to be the chauffeur himself.
"Are you Martin Leary?" he asked.
"Yes, sir." The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, choking down a bit of cold supper he had been eating, before turning in.
"I am Richard Duvall. You drove my wife uptown, somewhere, did you not?"
"Yes, sir. To Columbus Avenue and Ninety-sixth Street, sir. Won't you come in?"
"No. There isn't time. I want you to put on your coat and come along with me. Mrs. Duvall has not returned, and I am afraid something has happened to her."
The man turned and called to someone inside the flat.
"Gimme my hat and coat, Kitty," he said, then turned again to Duvall. "I suppose I should have waited, sir, but after two hours went by, I made up my mind that Mrs. Duvall didn't need me any longer."
"What is the building at Columbus Avenue and 96th Street?" Duvall asked, as the man, pulling on the coat his wife handed him, strode down the hall.
"An apartment building, sir."
"And why did Mrs. Duvall go there?"
"Well, sir, we was following a woman, sir. She went to a hotel on Seventy-second Street, and Mrs. Duvall told me to watch for her. I did, and tracked her to the place at 96th Street. Then I telephoned to Mrs. Duvall to come, and she did."
"What time was that?"
"About half-past nine, sir."
"All right. Go on."
"Mrs. Duvall came, sir, in another taxi. I pointed out the place where the woman went in, and Mrs. Duvall went in after her. She didn't say I was to wait, but I guess she expected me to, because she had sent the other cab away. I waited over two hours, and then, when she didn't come out, I supposed she had returned to her hotel, so I came back, too. She wasn't there, though. That's why I left the note."
"How did you think Mrs. Duvall could have gotten back to her hotel, if you were watching the door of the apartment house all the time?"
"I wasn't watching it all the time, sir. I went into the drug store once, sir, and got a cigar. And then, later on, I went to a saloon a piece down the Avenue and got a glass of beer. Mrs. Duvall didn't say I was to watch the place, sir. I thought when she got through what she had to do, she would come back to the cab. But she didn't. Do you think I ought to have waited, sir?" The man seemed greatly distressed.
"No use talking about that now," Duvall remarked, shortly. "I want to drive there at once. Get on the box, with the chauffeur, and point out the place to him."
"Yes, sir." A moment later they had started on their way uptown.
Knowing as he did Grace's impetuous nature, Duvall could only conclude that her pursuit of the woman had led her into some trap. What danger she might at this moment be facing, he could only surmise. The apartment building, when they finally reached it, presented a grim and forbidding appearance. Not a light broke the darkness of any of its windows. The drug store on the opposite corner, too, was closed for the night. The whole locality was dark and silent.
"There's the place, sir," Leary exclaimed, as they drew up to the corner.
"Tell the driver to stop a few doors up the block – not right in front of the building."
Leary nodded. Presently the cab stopped, and he and Duvall got out.
The detective's first move was to ascertain whether or not the building had any rear exit, by which Grace might have left, without being seen by Leary. He walked down the avenue to its rear wall, only to find that it abutted against the wall of the next building. There was no rear entrance.
If, then, Grace had not left the place during the past hour, she must still be in one of the ten flats that formed the five floors of the building. But which one? That, apparently, was the problem he had to solve.
It would be useless, he felt, to inquire at the doors of the various apartments at this hour of the morning. Admission, at least on the part of those he sought, would certainly be refused. Yet he felt that there was no time to be lost.
Stationing Leary before the front door, with instructions to keep a careful watch, Duvall went into the vestibule, and by means of his pocket light, inspected the names of the occupants of the building, as Grace had done a short time before. The hallway inside was dark, with the exception of a dim light at the foot of the stairs. Apparently the place boasted no elevator or hall-boy service.
The ten names on the boxes in the vestibule meant nothing to him. How was it possible to determine which one was that of the woman he sought? Weinberg – Scully – Martin – Stone – he ran down the list, trying to find some distinguishing mark, some clue, that would guide him.
Suddenly he paused, allowing the light from his torch to rest upon the card bearing the name of one of the tenants on the fourth floor.
This card had attracted his attention, because it was different from any of the others in the two racks. They were either engraved or printed visiting cards, stuck inside the brass frames provided for them, or the names were written or printed by hand upon blank cards. But this card, bearing simply the inscription E. W. Norman, was neither engraved nor printed, nor written by hand. On the contrary, it was typewritten.