serious one for her
to close his lips in such a manner."

"But they were good friends," declared Fetherston. "He surely had not
threatened to expose her?"

"I do not think he had. My own belief is that she became madly jealous of
Lady Blanche, and at the same time, fearing the exposure of her secret to
the woman to whom her lover had become engaged, she took the subtle means
of silencing him. Besides----" And he paused without concluding his
sentence.

"Besides what?"

"From the first you suspected Sir Hugh's stepdaughter, eh?"

Fetherston hesitated. Then afterwards he nodded slowly in the
affirmative.

"Yes," went on Trendall, "I knew all along that you were suspicious. You
made a certain remarkable discovery, eh, Fetherston?"

The novelist started. At what did his friend hint? Was it possible that
the inquiries had led to a suspicion of Sir Hugh's criminal conduct? The
very thought appalled him.

"I--well, in the course of the inquiries I made I found that the lady in
question was greatly attached to the dead man," replied Fetherston rather
lamely.

Trendall smiled. "It was to Enid Orlebar that Harry sent when he felt his
fatal seizure. Instead of sending for a doctor, he sent Barker to her,
and she at once flew to his side, but, alas! too late to remedy the harm
she had already caused. When she arrived he was dead!"

Fetherston was silent. He saw that the inquiries made by the Criminal
Investigation Department had led to exactly the same conclusion that he
himself had formed.

"This is a most distressing thought--that Enid Orlebar is a murderess!"
he declared after a moment's pause.

"It is--I admit. Yet we cannot close our eyes to such outstanding facts,
my dear chap. Depend upon it that there is something behind the poor
fellow's death of which we have no knowledge. In his death your friend
Miss Orlebar sought safety. The letter he wrote to her a week before his
assassination is sufficient evidence of that."

"A letter!" gasped Fetherston. "Is there one in existence?"

"Yes; it is in our possession; it reveals the existence of the secret."

"But what was its nature?" cried Fetherston in dismay. "What terrible
secret could there possibly be that could only be preserved by Bellairs'
silence?"

"That's just the puzzle we have to solve--just the very point which has
mystified us all along."

And then he turned to his correspondence again, opening his letters one
after the other--letters which, a