“Come in and see the letter,” he said.  “I never thought you’d fail.  It’s all very terrible indeed and I’m damned if I understand anything about it.  But one fact is clear:  my brother wrote this letter and he wrote it from Plymouth; and since he hasn’t been reported from Plymouth, I feel very little doubt the thing he wanted to happen has happened.”

Then he turned to his niece.

“We’ll have a cup of tea in half an hour, Jenny.  Meantime I’ll take Mr. Brendon up to the tower room along with me.”

Mrs. Pendean disappeared into the house and Mark followed her with the sailor.

They passed through a square hall full of various foreign curiosities collected by the owner.  Then they ascended into a large, octagonal chamber, like the lantern of a lighthouse, which surmounted the dwelling.

“My lookout,” explained Mr. Redmayne.  “In foul weather I spend all my time up here and with yonder strong, three-inch telescope I can pick up what’s doing at sea.  A bunk in the corner, you see.  I often sleep up here, too.”

“You might almost as well be afloat,” said Brendon, and the remark pleased Bendigo.

“That’s how I feel; and I can tell you there’s a bit of movement, too, sometimes.  I never wish to see bigger water than beat these cliffs during the south-easter last March.  We shook to our keel, I can tell you.”

He went to a tall cupboard in a corner, unlocked it and brought out a square, wooden desk of old-fashioned pattern.  This he opened and produced a letter which he handed to the detective.

Brendon sat down in a chair under the open window and read this communication slowly.  The writing was large and sprawling; it sloped slightly-upward from left to right across the sheet and left a triangle of white paper at the right-hand bottom corner: 

“Dear Ben:  It’s all over.  I’ve done in Michael Pendean and put him where only Judgment Day will find him.  Something drove me to do it; but all the same I’m sorry now it’s done—­not for him but myself.  I shall clear to-night, with luck, for France.  If I can send an address later I will.  Look after Jenny—­she’s well rid of the blighter.  When things have blown over I may come back.  Tell Albert and tell Flo.  Yours,

“R.  R.”

Brendon examined the letter and the envelope that contained it.

“Have you another communication—­something from the past I can compare with this?” he asked.

Bendigo nodded.

“I reckoned you’d want that,” he answered and produced a second letter from his desk.

It related to Robert Redmayne’s engagement to be married and the writing was identical.

“And what do you think he’s done, Mr. Redmayne?” Brendon asked, pocketing the two communications.

“I think he’s done what he hoped to do.  At this time of year you’ll see a dozen Spanish and Brittany onion boats lying down by the Barbican at Plymouth, every day of the week.  And if poor Bob got there, no doubt plenty of chaps would hide him when he offered ’em money enough to make it worth while.  Once aboard one of those sloops, he’d be about as safe as he would be anywhere.  They’d land him at St. Malo, or somewhere down there, and he’d give you the slip.”