one hand held out in front of him as you have seen a mind-reader at a theatre seeking for something hidden in the stalls.  He pulled the old letters from the writing-desk, and ran them over as swiftly as a gambler deals out cards; he dropped on his knees before the fireplace and dragged out the dead coals with his bare fingers, and then, with a low, worried cry, like a hound on a scent, he ran back to the waste-paper basket and, lifting the papers from it, shook them out upon the floor.  Instantly, he gave a shout of triumph, and, separating a number of torn pieces from the others, held them up before me.

“‘Look!’ he cried.  ’Do you see?  Here are five letters, torn across in two places.  The Russian did not stop to read them, for, as you see, he has left them still sealed.  I have been wrong.  He did not return for the letters.  He could not have known their value.  He must have returned for some other reason, and, as he was leaving, saw the letter-box, and, taking out the letters, held them together—­so—­and tore them twice across, and then, as the fire had gone out, tossed them into this basket.  Look!’ he cried, ’here in the upper corner of this piece is a Russian stamp.  This is his own letter—­unopened!’

“We examined the Russian stamp and found it had been cancelled in St. Petersburg four days ago.  The back of the envelope bore the postmark of the branch-station in upper Sloane Street, and was dated this morning.  The envelope was of official, blue paper, and we had no difficulty in finding the other two parts of it.  We drew the torn pieces of the letter from them and joined them together, side by side.  There were but two lines of writing, and this was the message:  ’I leave Petersburg on the night-train, and I shall see you at Trevor Terrace, after dinner, Monday evening.’

“‘That was last night!’ Lyle cried.  ’He arrived twelve hours ahead of his letter—­but it came in time—­it came in time to hang him!’”

The Baronet struck the table with his hand.

“The name!” he demanded.  “How was it signed?  What was the man’s name?”

The young Solicitor rose to his feet and, leaning forward, stretched out his arm.  “There was no name,” he cried.  “The letter was signed with only two initials.  But engraved at the top of the sheet was the man’s address.  That address was ’the American embassy, st. Petersburg, Bureau of the naval attache,’ and the initials,” he shouted, his voice rising into an exultant and bitter cry, “were those of the gentleman who sits opposite who told us that he was the first to find the murdered bodies, the Naval Attache to Russia, Lieutenant Sears!”

A strained and awful hush followed the Solicitor’s words, which seemed to vibrate like a twanging bowstring that had just hurled its bolt.  Sir Andrew, pale and staring, drew away, with an exclamation of repulsion.  His eyes were fastened upon the Naval Attache with fascinated horror.  But the American emitted a sigh of great content, and sank, comfortably, into the arms of his chair.  He clapped his hands, softly, together.