But when, this topic exhausted, Mr. Challoner rose to leave the room, Mr. Gryce showed where his own thoughts still centred, by asking him the date of the correspondence discovered between his daughter and her unknown admirer.

“Some of the letters were dated last summer, some this fall.  The one you are most anxious to hear about only a month back,” he added, with unconquerable devotion to what he considered his duty.

Mr. Gryce would like to have carried his inquiries further, but desisted.  His heart was full of compassion for this childless old man, doomed to have his choicest memories disturbed by cruel doubts which possibly would never be removed to his own complete satisfaction.

But when he was gone, and Sweetwater had returned, Mr. Gryce made it his first duty to communicate to his superiors the hitherto unsuspected fact of a secret romance in Miss Challoner’s seemingly calm and well-guarded life.  She had loved and been loved by one of whom her family knew nothing.  And the two had quarrelled, as certain letters lately found could be made to show.

VII

THE LETTERS

Before a table strewn with papers, in the room we have already mentioned as given over to the use of the police, sat Dr. Heath in a mood too thoughtful to notice the entrance of Mr. Gryce and Sweetwater from the dining-room where they had been having dinner.

However as the former’s tread was somewhat lumbering, the coroner’s attention was caught before they had quite crossed the room, and Sweetwater, with his quick eye, noted how his arm and hand immediately fell so as to cover up a portion of the papers lying nearest to him.

“Well, Gryce, this is a dark case,” he observed, as at his bidding the two detectives took their seats.

Mr. Gryce nodded; so did Sweetwater.

“The darkest that has ever come to my knowledge,” pursued the coroner.

Mr. Gryce again nodded; but not so, Sweetwater.  For some reason this simple expression of opinion seemed to have given him a mental start.

“She was not shot.  She was not struck by any other hand; yet she lies dead from a mortal wound in the breast.  Though there is no tangible proof of her having inflicted this wound upon herself, the jury will have no alternative, I fear, than to pronounce the case one of suicide.”

“I’m sorry that I’ve been able to do so little,” remarked Mr. Gryce.

The coroner darted him a quick look.

“You are not satisfied?  You have some different idea?” he asked.

The detective frowned at his hands crossed over the top of his cane, then shaking his head, replied: 

“The verdict you mention is the only natural one, of course.  I see that you have been talking with Miss Challoner’s former maid?”