Well, there was always some insane whim of Norman Westfall's coming to light somewhere and this doubtless was one of them.
The paper was very old and yellow, the handwriting unmistakably foreign.

French, was it not?
The firelight was too fitful to tell.
Carl switched on the light in the cluster of old iron lanterns above the table and frowned heavily at the paper.

No, it was the precise, formal English of a foreigner, with here and there a ludicrous error among the stilted phrases.

And as Carl read, a gust of wild, incredulous laughter echoed suddenly through the quiet room.

Again he read, cursing the dizzy fever of his head.