And she was not disappointed.  When her maid, a stolid Englishwoman, appeared at her bedside early Saturday she carried a letter, which she handed over, with the turned-up nose of one who aids but does not approve.  Quickly the girl tore it open.

Dear Texas lady:  I am writing this late in the afternoon.  The sun is casting long black shadows on the garden lawn, and the whole world is so bright and matter-of-fact I have to argue with myself to be convinced that the events of that tragic night through which I passed really happened.

The newspapers this morning helped to make it all seem a dream; not a line—­not a word, that I can find.  When I think of America, and how by this time the reporters would be swarming through our house if this thing had happened over there, I am the more astonished.  But then, I know these English papers.  The great Joe Chamberlain died the other night at ten, and it was noon the next day when the first paper to carry the story appeared—­screaming loudly that it had scored a beat.  It had.  Other lands, other methods.

It was probably not difficult for Bray to keep journalists such as these in the dark.  So their great ungainly sheets come out in total ignorance of a remarkable story in Adelphi Terrace.  Famished for real news, they begin to hint at a huge war cloud on the horizon.  Because tottering Austria has declared war on tiny Serbia, because the Kaiser is to-day hurrying, with his best dramatic effect, home to Berlin, they see all Europe shortly bathed in blood.  A nightmare born of torrid days and tossing nights!

But it is of the affair in Adelphi Terrace that you no doubt want to hear.  One sequel of the tragedy, which adds immeasurably to the mystery of it all, has occurred, and I alone am responsible for its discovery.  But to go back: 

I returned from mailing your letter at dawn this morning, very tired from the tension of the night.  I went to bed, but could not sleep.  More and more it was preying on my mind that I was in a most unhappy position.  I had not liked the looks cast at me by Inspector Bray, or his voice when he asked how I came to live in this house.  I told myself I should not be safe until the real murderer of the poor captain was found; and so I began to puzzle over the few clues in the case—­especially over the asters, the scarab pin and the Homburg hat.

It was then I remembered the four copies of the Daily Mail that Bray had casually thrown into the waste-basket as of no interest.  I had glanced over his shoulder as he examined these papers, and had seen that each of them was folded so that our favorite department —­the Agony Column—­was uppermost.  It happened I had in my desk copies of the Mail for the past week.  You will understand why.

I rose, found those papers, and began to read.  It was then that I made the astounding discovery to which I have alluded.

For a time after making it I was dumb with amazement, so that no course of action came readily to mind.  In the end I decided that the thing for me to do was to wait for Bray’s return in the morning and then point out to him the error he had made in ignoring the Mail.