glanced
interrogatively at Beatrice before he drew the letter from the envelope.

"Yes," Beatrice said; "I want you to read it. I brought it down on
purpose."

"There does not seem to be much," Berrington said. "As there is no
heading and signature, the letter may be intended for anybody."

"Only my father's name happens to be on the envelope," Beatrice said
quietly. "Pray read it aloud."

Berrington proceeded to do so. There were only two or three lines in
which the writer said that she must see the recipient of the letter
without delay, and that it was of no use to try and keep out of the way.
There was nothing more; no threat or sign of anger, nothing to signify
that there was any feeling at all. And yet so much might have been
concealed behind those simple lines. Berrington looked grave, and
trembled as he handed the letter back to Beatrice.

"Clearly it is our duty to find out who wrote that letter," Mark
observed. "It was written in the hotel, probably by somebody dining here
last night. It is just possible that it was written by someone who was
staying in the hotel. In that case we can easily ascertain the name of
the writer."

"How is that possible?" Berrington demanded. He asked the question quite
nervously. "In a place so large as this, with so many visitors
continually going and coming----"

"There is a rigid rule here," Mark proceeded to explain. "Every guest,
even if only passing a single night under the roof, has to sign the
visitors' book. With this letter in my hand I can compare signatures. If
there is no signature like this characteristic handwriting, then our
task is no easy one. On the other hand, if there is----"

The speaker paused significantly. Berrington's agitation deepened. With
all her distress and sorrow, Beatrice did not fail to notice it.

"Perhaps you will go down to the office and see at once, Mark," Beatrice
suggested.

Ventmore went off obediently enough. Berrington stood watching him for a
moment, then he turned to Beatrice and laid his hand gently on her arm.

"Believe me, this is not going to help anybody," he said in a low voice.
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, I know who wrote that letter. What
connection she had with your father and what the secret was between them
I shall perhaps never know. But the lady who wrote that letter----"

"Ah," Beatrice cried, with a flash of sudden inspiration, "it was the
grey lady, I am sure of it."

"You have guessed correctly," Berr