ey would convict him. We must find
them. We must have those letters. If we find the one with the Russian
postmark, we shall have found the murderer.' He spoke like a madman, and
as he spoke he ran around the room with one hand held out in front of
him as you have seen a mind-reader at a theatre seeking for something
hidden in the stalls. He pulled the old letters from the writing-desk,
and ran them over as swiftly as a gambler deals out cards; he dropped on
his knees before the fireplace and dragged out the dead coals with his
bare fingers, and then with a low, worried cry, like a hound on a scent,
he ran back to the waste-paper basket and, lifting the papers from it,
shook them out upon the floor. Instantly he gave a shout of triumph,
and, separating a number of torn pieces from the others, held them up
before me.

"'Look!' he cried. 'Do you see? Here are five letters, torn across in
two places. The Russian did not stop to read them, for, as you see, he
has left them still sealed. I have been wrong. He did not return for the
letters. He could not have known their value. He must have returned
for some other reason, and, as he was leaving, saw the letter-box, and
taking out the letters, held them together--so--and tore them twice
across, and then, as the fire had gone out, tossed them into this
basket. Look!' he cried, 'here in the upper corner of this piece is a
Russian stamp. This is his own letter--unopened!'

"We examined the Russian stamp and found it had been cancelled in St.
Petersburg four days ago. The back of the envelope bore the postmark of
the branch station in upper Sloane Street, and was dated this morning.
The envelope was of official blue paper and we had no difficulty in
finding the two other parts of it. We drew the torn pieces of the letter
from them and joined them together side by side. There were but two
lines of writing, and this was the message: 'I leave Petersburg on the
night train, and I shall see you at Trevor Terrace after dinner Monday
evening.'

"'That was last night!' Lyle cried. 'He arrived twelve hours ahead of
his letter--but it came in time--it came in time to hang him!'"

The Baronet struck the table with his hand.

"The name!" he demanded. "How was it signed? What was the man's name!"

The young Solicitor rose to his feet and, leaning forward, stretched out
his arm. "There was no name," he cried. "The letter was signed with
only two initials. But engraved at the top of the she