d family servant of some
sort. Looks as if he'd been crying. He's trembling so he can scarcely
stand, and seems deeply affected by something. Says he has a message
for you, and must see you personally."

"Very well. Show him in."

"Thank you for receiving me, sir." A quavering old voice sounded from
the doorway a moment later, and Blaine turned in his chair to face the
aged, erect, black-clad figure which stood there.

"Come in, Hicks." The detective's voice was kindly. "Sit down here,
and tell me what I can do for you."

"I bring you a message, sir." The man tottered to the chair and sank
into it. "A message from the dead."

Blaine leaned forward suddenly.

"You were--"

"Mr. Rockamore's valet, sir, and his father's before him. I loved him
as if he were my own son, if you will pardon the liberty I take in
saying so, and when he came to this country I accompanied him. He was
always good to me, sir, a kind young master and a real friend. It was
I who found him this morning--"

His voice broke, and he bowed his head upon his wrinkled hands. No
tears came--but the thin shoulders shook, and a dry sob tore its way
from the gaunt throat.

Blaine waited until the paroxysm had ceased, and then urged, gently:

"Go on, Hicks. You have something to tell me?"

"Yes, sir. The coroner and the press call it accidental death, but
I--may God forgive me for saying it--I know better! He left word where
none could find it but me, that you knew the truth, and he bade me
give you--this!"

He produced a large, square envelope from an inner pocket, and
extended it in his trembling hand to the detective. Without glancing
at it, Blaine laid it on the desk before him.

"Where did you discover this?"

"There is a flat, oblong casket of old silver, shaped somewhat like a
humidor--a family relic, sir--which stands upon the center-table in
the den. Whenever Mr. Rockamore had any message to leave for me in
writing, concerning his confidential business, which he did not wish
the other servants to have access to, he always slipped it into the
casket. After the coroner had come and gone this morning, and some of
the excitement had died down, I went back to the den, to straighten
it. I don't know why, but somehow I half suspected the truth. Perhaps
it was the expression of his face--so peaceful and resigned, with all
the hard, sneering lines the years had brought gone from it, so that
he looked almost like a boy again, the bonny boy who