d rolled into a little ball in her hand.

"I cannot disclose my business to you, mademoiselle," he said
courteously. "I must see Mrs. Holymead personally, so I shall call again
when she has returned."

"But, monsieur, why will you not tell me?" she asked coaxingly. "You are
a police agent? Have you therefore come to see Madame about the case?"

Rolfe showed that he was taken aback by the direct question.

"The case!" he stammered. "What case?"

"Why, monsieur, what case should it be but that of which I have so often
heard Madame speak? Le judge--the good friend of Monsieur and Madame
Holymead, who was killed by the base assassin! Madame is disconsolate
about his terrible end!" Mademoiselle Chiron here applied the
handkerchief to her eyes on her own account. "Have you come to tell her
that you have caught the wicked man who did assassinate him? Madame will
be overjoyed!"

"Why, hardly that," replied Rolfe, completely off his guard. "But we're
on the track, mademoiselle--we're on the track."

"And is it that you wanted me to tell Madame?" persisted
Mademoiselle Chiron.

"I wanted to ask her a question or two about several things," said Rolfe,
who had determined to disclose his hand sufficiently to bring Mrs.
Holymead back to London if she had anything to do with the crime. "I want
to ask her about some letters that were stolen--no, I won't say
stolen--letters that were removed from Riversbrook. I have been informed
that even if these letters are no longer in existence she can give the
police a good idea of what was in them."

The telephone bell in the corner of the room rang suddenly. Mademoiselle
Chiron ran to answer it, and accidentally dropped her handkerchief on the
floor in picking up the receiver.

Mademoiselle Chiron began speaking on the telephone, but she stopped
suddenly, staring with frightened eyes into the mirror at the other side
of the room. The glass reflected the actions of Rolfe at the table.
Seated with his back towards her, he had taken advantage of her being
called to the telephone to examine her handkerchief, which he had picked
up from the floor. He had produced from his pocketbook the scrap of lace
and muslin which he had found in the murdered man's hand. He had the two
on the table side by side comparing them, and Mademoiselle Chiron noticed
a smile of satisfaction flit across his face as he did so. While she
looked he restored the scrap to his pocket-book, and the pocket-book to
his p