He looked at the address.

The box had been forwarded from his lodgings, and he was not familiar with the handwriting.
"There is some mistake," he said as he shook the lid open, and then he stopped abruptly.

Three white feathers fluttered out of the box, swayed and rocked for a moment in the air, and then, one after another, settled gently down upon the floor.

They lay like flakes of snow upon the dark polished boards.

But they were not whiter than Harry Feversham's cheeks.
He stood and stared at the feathers until he felt a light touch upon his arm.