ˈðɪs ɪz ɪnˈdiːd ə ˈmɪstri aɪ rɪˈmɑːkt
|| ˈwɒt də ju ɪˈmæʤən ðət ɪp ˈmiːnz
aɪ hæv ˈnəʊ ˈdeɪtə ˈjet || ɪts ə
ˈkæpətl̩ mɪˈsteɪk | tə ˈθɪəraɪz bɪˈfɔː ˈwʌn hæz ˈdeɪtə || ɪnˈsensəbli
| ˈwʌm bɪˈɡɪnz tə ˈtwɪs ˈfæks | tə ˈsuːt ˈθɪəriz | ɪnˈsted əv ˈθɪəriz
tə ˈsuːt ˈfæks || bət ðə ˈnəʊt ɪtˈself || ˈwɒt də ju dɪˈʤuːs
frəm ɪt
aɪ ˈkeəfli ɪɡˈzæmɪn ðə ˈraɪtɪŋ | ən
ðə ˈpeɪpər əˈpɒn ˈwɪʧ ɪt wəz ˈrɪtn̩
ðə ˈmæn u ˈrəʊt ɪt | wəz prɪˈzjuːməbli
ˈwel tə ˈduː aɪ rɪˈmɑːkt | ɪnˈdevrɪŋ tu ˈɪməteɪp maɪ kəmˈpænjənz ˈprəʊsesɪz
|| ˈsʌʧ ˈpeɪpə kəd ˈnɒp bi ˈbɔːt | ˈʌndə ˈhɑːf ə ˈkraʊn ə ˈpækɪt
|| ɪts pɪˈkjuːliəli ˈstrɒŋ ən ˈstɪf
pɪˈkjuːliə | ˈðæts ðə ˈveri ˈwɜːd
ˈsed ˈhəʊmz || ɪts ˈnɒt ən ˈɪŋɡlɪʃ ˈpeɪpər ə ˈtɔːl || ˈhəʊld ɪt ˈʌp tə ðə
ˈlaɪt
aɪ ˈdɪd ˈsəʊ | ən ˈsɔːr ə ˈlɑːʤ ˈiː
| wɪð ə ˈsmɔːl ˈʤiː | ə ˈpiː | ən ə ˈlɑːʤ ˈʤiː | wɪð ə ˈsmɔːl
ˈtiː | ˈwəʊvn̩ ˈɪntə ðə ˈteksʧər ə ðə ˈpeɪpə
ˈwɒt də ju ˈmeɪk ə ˈðæt ˈɑːst
ˈhəʊmz
ðə ˈneɪm ə ðə ˈmeɪkə ˈnəʊ ˈdaʊt |
ɔːr ɪz ˈmɒnəɡræm | ˈrɑːðə
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked.
“What do you imagine that it means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital
mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts
to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What
do you deduce from it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the
paper upon which it was written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably
well to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes.
“Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly
strong and stiff.”
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said
Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a
small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of
the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked
Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his
monogram, rather.”
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