my dear, you could elucidate this mystery."

Jean had not spoken since he entered. She sat bolt upright on a chair,
her hands folded in her lap, her sad eyes fixed now upon Jack, now upon
the detective. She shook her head.

"I know nothing about the rifle, and did not even know you possessed
one," she said. "But please answer all their questions, father. I am as
anxious as you are to get to the bottom of this dreadful tragedy. Have
you told my father about the letters which were discovered?"

The detective shook his head.

"I have not seen your father until he arrived this moment," he said.

"Letters?" Mr. Briggerland looked at his daughter. "Did poor Lydia leave
a letter?"

She nodded.

"I think Mr. Glover will tell you, father," she said. "Poor Lydia had an
attachment for Mordon. It is very clear what happened. They went out
to-day, never intending to return----"

"Mrs. Meredith had no intention of going to the Lovers' Chair until you
suggested the trip to her," said Jack quietly. "Mrs. Cole-Mortimer is
very emphatic on that point."

"Has the body been found?" asked Mr. Briggerland.

"Nothing has been found but the chauffeur," said the detective.

After a few more questions he took Jack outside.

"It looks very much to me as though it were one of those crimes of
passion which are so frequent in this country," he said. "Mordon was a
Frenchman and I have been able to identify him by tattoo marks on his
arm, as a man who has been in the hands of the police many times."

"You think there is no hope?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders.

"We are dragging the pool. There is very deep water under the rock, but
the chances are that the body has been washed out to sea. There is
clearly no evidence against these people, except yours. The letters
might, of course, have been forged, but you say you are certain that the
writing is Mrs. Meredith's."

Jack nodded.

They were walking down the road towards the officers' waiting car, when
Jack asked:

"May I see that letter again?"

The detective took it from his pocket book and Jack stopped and scanned
it.

"Yes, it is her writing," he said and then uttered an exclamation.

"Do you see that?"

He pointed eagerly to two little marks before the words "Dear friend."

"Quotation marks," said the detective, puzzled. "Why did she write
that?"

"I've got it," said Jack. "The story! Mademoiselle Briggerland told me
she was writing a story, and I remember sh