“And this came into your possession—­how?”

“I found it on the table by Duson’s side.”

“You intend to produce it at the inquest?”

“I think not,” Mr. Sabin answered.

There was a short silence.  Passmore was revolving a certain matter in his mind—­thinking hard.  Mr. Sabin was apparently trying to make rings of the blue smoke from his cigarette.

“Has it occurred to you,” Passmore asked, “to wonder for what reason your wife visited these rooms on the morning of Duson’s death?”

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

“I cannot say that it has.”

“She knew that you were not here,” Passmore continued.  “She left no message.  She came closely veiled and departed unrecognised.”  Mr. Sabin nodded.

“There were reasons,” he said, “for that.  But when you say that she left no message you are mistaken.”

Passmore nodded.

“Go on,” he said.

Mr. Sabin nodded towards a great vase of La France roses upon a side table.

“I found these here on my return,” he said, “and attached to them the card which I believe is still there.  Go and look at it.”

Passmore rose and bent over the fragrant blossoms.  The card still remained, and on the back of it, in a delicate feminine handwriting: 

“For my husband,
“with love from
“Lucille.”

Mr. Passmore shrugged his shoulders.  He had not the vice of obstinacy, and he knew when to abandon a theory.

“I am corrected,” he said.  “In any case, a mystery remains as well worth solving.  Who are these people at whose instigation Duson was to have murdered you—­these people whom Duson feared so much that suicide was his only alternative to obeying their behests?”

Mr. Sabin smiled faintly.

“Ah, my dear Passmore,” he said, “you must not ask me that question.  I can only answer you in this way.  If you wish to make the biggest sensation which has ever been created in the criminal world, to render yourself immortal, and your fame imperishable—­find out!  I may not help you, I doubt whether you will find any to help you.  But if you want excitement, the excitement of a dangerous chase after a tremendous quarry, take your life in your hands, go in and win.”

Passmore’s withered little face lit up with a gleam of rare excitement.

“These are your enemies, sir,” he said.  “They have attempted your life once, they may do it again.  Assume the offensive yourself.  Give me a hint.”

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

“That I cannot do,” he said.  “I have saved you from wasting your time on a false scent.  I have given you something definite to work upon.  Further than that I can do nothing.”

Passmore looked his disappointment, but he knew Mr. Sabin better than to argue the matter.

“You will not even produce that letter at the inquest?” he asked.

“Not even that,” Mr. Sabin answered.