There must have been a tone of distrust to his voice, for she turned and faced him defiantly.

“No; not that.  Listen:  I am a newspaperwoman, a special writer on the New York Star.”  She paused, her cheeks flushing with nervousness.  “It—­it was very strange that I met you first of all, for—­for it seems that the case is of personal interest to you.”

“To me!  Why, that is hardly likely, if it originated in New York.”

“It did”—­she drew in a sharp breath—­“for it originated in the murder of Frederick Cavendish.”

“The murder of Cavendish!  He has been killed?”

“Yes; at least that is what every one believes, except possibly one man—­his former valet.  His body was found lying dead on the floor of his private apartment, the door of his safe open, the money and papers missing.  The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of murder on these facts.”

“And the murderer?”

“Left no clue; it was believed to be the work of a burglar.”

“But when was this?”

She gave the date, and he studied over it.

“The same day he should have received my telegram,” he said gravely.  “That’s why the poor fellow never answered.”  He turned to her suddenly.  “But what became of my others,” he asked, “and of all the letters I wrote?”

“That is exactly what I want to learn.  They must have been delivered to his cousin, John Cavendish.  I’ll tell you all I know, and then perhaps, between us, we may be able to figure it out.”

Briefly and clearly, she set before him the facts she and Willis had been able to gather:  the will, the connection between Enright and John Cavendish, the quarrel between John and Frederick, the visit of John to Enright’s office, the suspicion of Valois that the murdered man was not Cavendish, and, finally, the conversation overheard in Steinway’s, the torn telegram, and the meeting between Celeste La Rue and Enright.

When she had finished, Westcott sat, chin in hand, turning the evidence over in his mind.  “Do you believe Frederick Cavendish is dead?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

Westcott struck his hand down on the rock, his eyes glowing dangerously.

“Well, I don’t!” he exclaimed.  “I believe he is alive!  My theory is that this was all carefully arranged, but that circumstances compelled them to act quickly, and before they were entirely ready.  Two unexpected occurrences hurried them into action.”

She leaned forward, stirred by his earnestness.

“What?”

“The quarrel in the restaurant, leading to the making of the will,” he answered gravely, “and my telegram.  The two things fit together exactly.  He must have received my first message that same night.  In my judgment he was glad of some excuse to leave New York and determined to take the first train West.  His quarrel with John, coupled with his disgust of the company he kept, caused him to draw up this will hurriedly.  He left the club intending to pack up and take the first train.”