But Mr. Gryce, who discerned tidings in the bereaved father’s face, was all alacrity in an instant.  Greeting his visitor with a smile which few could see without trusting the man, he explained the inspector’s absence and introduced himself in his own capacity.

Mr. Challoner had heard of him.  Nevertheless, he did not seem inclined to speak.

Mr. Gryce motioned Sweetwater from the room.  With a woeful look the young detective withdrew, his last glance cast at the cutter still lying in full view on the table.

Mr. Gryce, not unmindful himself of this object, took it up, then laid it down again, with an air of seeming abstraction.

The father’s attention was caught.

“What is that?” he cried, advancing a step and bestowing more than an ordinary glance at the object thus brought casually, as it were, to his notice.  “I surely recognise this cutter.  Does it belong here or—­”

Mr. Gryce, observing the other’s emotion, motioned him to a chair.  As his visitor sank into it, he remarked, with all the consideration exacted by the situation: 

“It is unknown property, Mr. Challoner.  But we have some reason to think it belonged to your daughter.  Are we correct in this surmise?”

“I have seen it, or one like it, often in her hand.”  Here his eyes suddenly dilated and the hand stretched forth to grasp it quickly drew back.  “Where—­where was it found?” he hoarsely demanded.  “O God! am I to be crushed to the very earth by sorrow!”

Mr. Gryce hastened to give him such relief as was consistent with the truth.

“It was picked up—­last night—­from the lobby floor.  There is seemingly nothing to connect it with her death.  Yet—­”

The pause was eloquent.  Mr. Challoner gave the detective an agonised look and turned white to the lips.  Then gradually, as the silence continued, his head fell forward, and he muttered almost unintelligibly: 

“I honestly believe her the victim of some heartless stranger.  I do now; but—­but I cannot mislead the police.  At any cost I must retract a statement I made under false impressions and with no desire to deceive.  I said that I knew all of the gentlemen who admired her and aspired to her hand, and that they were all reputable men and above committing a crime of this or any other kind.  But it seems that I did not know her secret heart as thoroughly as I had supposed.  Among her effects I have just come upon a batch of letters —­love letters I am forced to acknowledge—­signed by initials totally strange to me.  The letters are manly in tone—­most of them —­but one—­”

“What about the one?”

“Shows that the writer was displeased.  It may mean nothing, but I could not let the matter go without setting myself right with the authorities.  If it might be allowed to rest here—­if those letters can remain sacred, it would save me the additional pang of seeing her inmost concerns—­the secret and holiest recesses of a woman’s heart, laid open to the public.  For, from the tenor of most of these letters, she—­she was not averse to the writer.”