“That was not Mrs. Holymead,” said Crewe.

“How do you know?  If it was not her, who was it?  Do you know?”

“I think I know, and when I am at liberty to speak I will tell you.”

“Then there is a third point,” continued Rolfe.  “Look at this handkerchief you brought.  I saw a handkerchief of exactly similar pattern at Mrs. Holymead’s house when I called there.”

“Wasn’t that the property of her French cousin, Mademoiselle Chiron?”

“Yes, she dropped it on the floor while I was there.  But it is probable the handkerchief was one of a set given her by Mrs. Holymead.”

“Quite probably, Rolfe.  But scores of ladies who are fond of expensive things have handkerchiefs of a similar pattern.  You will find if you inquire among the West End shops, that although it is a dainty, expensive article from the man’s point of view, there is nothing singular about the quality or the pattern.”

“Perhaps so,” said Rolfe, “but the possession of handkerchiefs of this kind is surely suspicious when taken in conjunction with her removal of the letters.  I wish I could get hold of that infernal scoundrel Hill again.  I am convinced that he knows a great deal more about this murder than he has yet told us, and a great deal more about Mrs. Holymead and her letters.  I’ve had his shop watched day and night since he disappeared, but he keeps close to his burrow, and I’ve not been able to get on his track.”

“I’d give up watching for him if I were you,” said Crewe, as he flicked the ash of his cigar into the fireplace.  “You’re not likely to find him now.  As a matter of fact, he has left the country.”

“Hill left the country?” echoed Rolfe.  “I think you are mistaken there, Mr. Crewe.  He had no money; how could he get away?”

Crewe selected another cigar from his case and lighted it before answering.

“The fact is, I advanced him the money,” he said.  “Technically it’s a loan, but I do not think any of it will be paid back.”

Rolfe stared hard at Crewe to see if he was joking.

“What on earth made you do that?” he demanded at length.  “Hill may be the actual murderer for all we know.”

“Not at all,” was the reply.  “Before I helped him to leave England I satisfied myself that he had absolutely nothing to do with the murder.  He does not know who shot Sir Horace Fewbanks, though, of course, he still half believes that it was Birchill.  When I got in touch with him after his disappearance he was in a pitiable state of fright—­waking or sleeping, he couldn’t get his mind off the gallows.  There were two or three points on which I wanted his assistance in clearing up the Riversbrook case, and I promised to get him out of the country if he would make a clean breast of things and tell me the truth as far as he knew it.  He made a confession—­a true one this time.  I took it down and I’ll let you have a copy.  There are a few interesting points on which it differs materially from the statement he made to the police when you and Chippenfield cornered him.”