"God's goodness!" she said. "You can go off fishing--a professed
murder catcher like you--and a man killed under your nose you may
say!"

"It isn't my job. Now, clear out. I want to get up."

"Well, I never!" murmured Milly and departed in great astonishment.

But Brendon was not to enjoy the freedom that he desired in this
matter. He ordered sandwiches, intending to beat a hasty retreat and
get beyond reach; then at half past nine, he emerged into a dull and
lowering morn. Fine mist was in the air and a heavy fog hid the
hills. There seemed every probability of a wet day and from a
fisherman's point of view the conditions promised sport. He was just
slipping on a raincoat and about to leave the hotel when Will Blake
appeared and handed him a letter. He glanced at it, half inclined to
stick the missive in the hall letter rack and leave perusal until
his return, but the handwriting was a woman's and did not lack for
distinction and character. He felt curious and, not associating the
incident with the rumoured crime, set down his rod and creel, opened
the note, and read what was written:

"3 Station Cottages, Princetown.

"DEAR SIR: The police have told me that you are in Princetown,
and it seems as though Providence had sent you. I fear that I
have no right to seek your services directly, but if you can
answer the prayer of a heartbroken woman and give her the
benefit of your genius in this dark moment, she would be
unspeakably thankful.

"Faithfully yours,
JENNY PENDEAN."

Mark Brendon murmured "damn" gently under his breath. Then he turned
to Will.

"Where is Mrs. Pendean's house?" he asked.

"In Station Cottages, just before you come to the prison woods,
sir."

"Run over, then, and say I'll call in half an hour."

"There!" Will grinned. "I told 'em you'd never keep out of it!"

He was gone and Brendon read the letter again, studied its neat
caligraphy, and observed that a tear had blotted the middle of the
sheet. Once more he said "damn" to himself, dropped his fishing
basket and rod, turned up the collar of his mackintosh, and walked
to the police station, where he heard a little of the matter in hand
from a constable and then asked for permission to use the telephone.
In five minutes he was speaking to his own chief at Scotland Yard,
and the familiar cockney voice of I