“Listen!” he admonished me.  “It still says No!  No!  I don’t think it will ever say anything else.”

I stared at him in some consternation, then at the clock itself which was the tall one I had found run down at my first visit.  There was nothing unusual in its quiet tick, so far as I could hear, and with a compassionate glance at the old man who had turned breathlessly again to listen, proceeded on my way without another word.

The old fellow was daft.  A century old, and daft.

I had worked my way out through the vines which still encumbered the porch, and was taking my first steps down the walk, when some impulse made me turn and glance up at one of the windows.

Did I bless the impulse?  I thought I had every reason for doing so, when through a network of interlacing branches I beheld the young girl with whom my mind was wholly occupied, standing with her head thrust forward, watching the descent of something small and white which she had just released from her hand.

A note!  A note written by her and meant for me!  With a grateful look in her direction (which was probably lost upon her as she had already drawn back out of sight), I sprang for it only to meet with disappointment.  For it was no billet-doux I received from amid the clustering brush where it had fallen; but a small square of white cloth showing a line of fantastic embroidery.  Annoyed beyond measure, I was about to fling it down again, when the thought that it had come from her hand deterred me, and I thrust it into my vest pocket.  When I took it out again—­which was soon after I had taken my seat in the car—­I discovered what a mistake I should have made if I had followed my first impulse.  For, upon examining the stitches more carefully, I perceived that what I had considered a mere decorative pattern was in fact a string of letters, and that these letters made words, and that these words were: 

IDONOTWANTTOD
IEBUTISURELYWILLIF

Or, in plain writing: 

“I do not want to die, but I surely will if—­”

Finish the sentence for me.  That is the problem I offer you.  It is not a case for the police but one well worth your attention, if you succeed in reaching the heart of this mystery and saving this young girl.

Only, let no delay occur.  The doom, if doom it is, is immanent.  Remember that the will is signed.

“She is too small; I did not ask you to send me a midget.”

Thus spoke Mrs. Postlethwaite to her doctor, as he introduced into her presence a little figure in nurse’s cap and apron.  “You said I needed care,—­more care than I was receiving.  I answered that my old nurse could give it, and you objected that she or someone else must look after Miss Postlethwaite.  I did not see the necessity, but I never contradict a doctor.  So I yielded to your wishes, but not without the proviso (you remember that I made a proviso) that whatever sort of young woman you chose to introduce into this room, she should not be fresh from the training schools, and that she should be strong, silent, and capable.  And you bring me this mite of a woman—­is she a woman? she looks more like a child, of pleasing countenance enough, but who can no more lift me—­”