ne was apparently responsible for the death of the
invalid," I remarked.

"I think so--without a doubt."

"But who was the invalid? Was he the real Sir Digby?"

"Aye, that's the question," said Edwards, thrusting his hands into his
trouser pockets. For some moments we both sat staring blankly into the
fire.

"Among the papers sent to us," he said very slowly at last, "was this.
Read it, and tell me your opinion."

And then he took from his pocket-book and handed me a half-sheet of thin
foreign notepaper, which had been closely written upon on both sides. It
was apparently a sheet from a letter, for there was no beginning and no
ending.

The handwriting was educated, though small and crabbed, and the ink brown
and half-faded, perhaps because of its exposure to a tropical climate. It
had been written by a man, without a doubt.

"That," said Edwards, "was found in a pocket-book belonging to Cane,
which, in his hasty flight, he apparently forgot. According to our report
the wallet was found concealed beneath the mattress of his bed, as though
he feared lest anyone should read and learn what it contained. Read it,
and tell me what you think."

I took the sheet of thin paper in my fingers, and, crossing the room to a
brighter light, managed to decipher the writing as follows:

"... At fourteen paces from where this wall rises from the lawn
stands the ever-plashing fountain. The basin is circular, while
around runs a paved path, hemmed in by smoke-blackened laurels
and cut off from the public way by iron railings. The water
falls with pleasant cadence into a small basin set upon a base
of moss-grown rockwork. Looking south one meets a vista of green
grass, of never-ceasing London traffic, and one tall distant
factory chimney away in the grey haze, while around the fountain
are four stunted trees. On the right stretches a strip of
garden, in spring green and gay with bulbs which bloom and die
unnoticed by the hundreds upon hundreds of London's workers who
pass and re-pass daily in their mad, reckless hurry to earn the
wherewithal to live.

"Halt upon the gravel at that spot on the twenty-third of the
month punctually at noon, and she will pass wearing the yellow
flower. It is the only trysting-place. She has kept it
religiously for one whole year without--alas!--effecting a
meeting. Go there--tell her that I still live, shake her hand in
g