ddressed to a box at the General Post
Office in the City, contained secret information from various unsuspected
quarters at home and abroad.

Suddenly, in order to change the topic of conversation, which he knew was
painful to Walter Fetherston, he mentioned the excellence of the opera at
Covent Garden on the previous night. And afterwards he referred to an
article in that day's paper which dealt with the idea of obtaining
exclusive political intelligence through spirit-bureaux. Then, speaking
of the labour unrest, Trendall pronounced his opinion as follows:

"The whole situation would be ludicrous were it not urged so
persistently as to be a menace not so much in this country, where we know
too well the temperaments of its sponsors, but abroad, where public
opinion, imperfectly instructed, may imagine it represents a serious
national feeling. The continuance of it is an intolerable negation of
civilisation; it is supported by no public men of credit; it has been
disproved again and again. Ridicule may be left to give the menace the
_coup de grace_! And this," he laughed, "in face of what you and I know,
eh? Ah! how long will the British public be lulled to sleep by anonymous
scribblers?"

"One day they'll have a rude awakening," declared Fetherston, still
thinking, however, of that letter of the dead man to Enid. "I wonder," he
added, "I wonder who inspires these denials? We know, of course, that
each time anything against enemy interests appears in a certain section
of the Press there arises a ready army of letter-writers who rush into
print and append their names to assurances that the enemy is nowadays our
best friend. Those 'patriotic Englishmen' are, many of them, in high
positions.

"When responsible papers wilfully mislead the public, what can be
expected?" Walter went on. "But," he added after a pause, "we did not
arrive at any definite conclusion regarding the tragic death of Bellairs.
What about that letter of his?"

Trendall was thoughtful for a few minutes.

"My conclusion--the only one that can be formed," he answered at last,
disregarding his friend's question--"is that Enid Orlebar is the guilty
person; and before long I hope to be in possession of that secret which
she strove by her crime to suppress--a secret which I feel convinced we
shall discover to be one of an amazing character."

Walter stood motionless as a statue.

Surely Bellairs had not died by Enid's hand!

CHAPTER XXV

AT