Hume-Frazer must die a violent death outside that library window, and if
the cause of the trouble is another Hume-Frazer, it is their own blooming
business, and no other person's. Most extraordinary old chap. Have you met
him?"

"No. Indeed, I am only just beginning to hear the correct details of the
story."

Hume winced, but passed no remark.

"Well, my information came through an anonymous letter."

"You don't say so! How interesting! Have you got it?"

"I brought it with me, for a reason other than that which actuates me now,
I must confess."

He produced a small envelope, frayed at the edges, and closely compressed.
It bore the type-written address, "Police Office, Scotland Yard," and the
postal stamp was "West Strand, January 18, 9 p.m."

Within, a small slip of paper, also typed, gave this message:--

"About Stowmarket. David Hume Frazer
killed cousin. Cousin talked girl in road.
Girl waited wood. David Hume Frazer met
girl in wood after 1 a.m."

Brett jumped up in instant excitement. Ha placed the two documents on a
table near the window, where the afternoon sun fell directly on them.

"Written by the murderer!" he cried "The result of perusing the evening
papers containing a report of the first proceedings before the
magistrates! The production of an illiterate man, who knew neither the use
of a hyphen nor the correct word to describe the avenue! Not wholly exact
either, if your story be true, Hume."

"My story is true. Helen herself will tell it you, word for word."

"This is most important. Look at that broken small 'c,' and the bent
capital 'D.' The letter 'a,' too, is out of gear, and does not register
accurately. Do you note the irregular spacing in 'market,' 'Frazer,'
'talked'? You got that letter, Winter, and yet you did not test every
Remington type-writer in London."

"Oh, of course it's my fault!"

Mr. Winter's _coup_ has fallen on himself, and he knew it.

"Oh, Winter, Winter! Come to me twice a week from six to seven, Tuesdays
and Fridays, and I will give you a night-school training. Now, I wonder if
that type-writer has been repaired?"

The detective had seldom seen Brett so thoroughly roused. His eyes were
brilliant, his nose dilated as if he could smell the very scent of the
anonymous scribe.

"An illiterate man," he repeated, "in evening dress; the same height and
appearance as Hume; in a village like Sleagill on a New Year's Eve; four
miles from everywhere