say, Watson?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely out of the country it
would relieve the tax-payer of a burden."

"But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he
goes?"

"He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with
all that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he
was hiding."

"That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well, Barrymore --"

"God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have
killed my poor wife had he been taken again."

"I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after
what we have heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, so
there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go."

With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he
hesitated and then came back.

"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the
best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and
perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the
inquest that I found it out. I've never breathed a word about it
yet to mortal man. It's about poor Sir Charles's death."

The baronet and I were both upon our feet. "Do you know how he
died?"

"No, sir, I don't know that."

"What then?"

"I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a
woman."

"To meet a woman! He?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the woman's name?"

"I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials.
Her initials were L. L."

"How do you know this, Barrymore?"

"Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had
usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well
known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was
glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was
only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was
from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman's hand."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have
done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was
cleaning out Sir Charles's study--it had never been touched since
his death--and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back
of the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but
one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the
writing could still be read, though it was gray on a black
ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of the
letter, and it said: 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman,
bu