open.  Mrs. Eastham’s dance was still in progress.  She is not a timid girl, so she walked boldly up the avenue until she met Fergusson, the butler, who was then going to tell Mrs. Eastham.  When she heard his story she was too shocked to credit it, and asked him to bring me.  I came.  By that time I was beginning to realise that I might be implicated in the affair, and I begged her to return home at once, alone.  She did so.  Subsequently she asked me not to refer to the escapade, for obvious reasons.  It was a woman’s little secret, Brett, and I was compelled to keep it.”

“Anything else, Winter?” demanded the barrister, wrapped in a cloud of his own creation.

“That is all, sir, except the way in which I heard of Miss Layton’s meeting with Mr. Hume.”

“Not through Fergusson, eh?”

“Not a bit.  The old chap is as close as wax.  He seems to think that a Hume-Frazer must die a violent death outside that library window, and if the cause of the trouble is another Hume-Frazer, it is their own blooming business, and no other person’s.  Most extraordinary old chap.  Have you met him?”

“No.  Indeed, I am only just beginning to hear the correct details of the story.”

Hume winced, but passed no remark.

“Well, my information came through an anonymous letter.”

“You don’t say so!  How interesting!  Have you got it?”

“I brought it with me, for a reason other than that which actuates me now, I must confess.”

He produced a small envelope, frayed at the edges, and closely compressed.  It bore the type-written address, “Police Office, Scotland Yard,” and the postal stamp was “West Strand, January 18, 9 p.m.”

Within, a small slip of paper, also typed, gave this message:—­

“About Stowmarket.  David Hume Frazer killed cousin.  Cousin talked girl in road.  Girl waited wood.  David Hume Frazer met girl in wood after 1 a.m.”

Brett jumped up in instant excitement.  Ha placed the two documents on a table near the window, where the afternoon sun fell directly on them.

“Written by the murderer!” he cried “The result of perusing the evening papers containing a report of the first proceedings before the magistrates!  The production of an illiterate man, who knew neither the use of a hyphen nor the correct word to describe the avenue!  Not wholly exact either, if your story be true, Hume.”

“My story is true.  Helen herself will tell it you, word for word.”

“This is most important.  Look at that broken small ‘c,’ and the bent capital ‘D.’  The letter ‘a,’ too, is out of gear, and does not register accurately.  Do you note the irregular spacing in ‘market,’ ‘Frazer,’ ‘talked’?  You got that letter, Winter, and yet you did not test every Remington type-writer in London.”

“Oh, of course it’s my fault!”

Mr. Winter’s coup has fallen on himself, and he knew it.