m abroad and
the woman who loved him so well, though she had been forced to become the
wife of another.

That meeting had taken place more than twenty years ago. What had been
its result was shown in the next letter I opened.

Written from the Queen's Hotel at Hastings on the fourth of October, the
unfortunate "Mittie," who seemed to spend her life travelling on the
South Coast, penned the following in a thin, uncertain hand:--

"Our meeting was a mistake, Dig, a grave mistake. We were
watched by somebody in the employ of Francis. When I returned to
Tunbridge Wells he taxed me with having met you, described our
trysting-place--the fountain--and how we had walked and walked
until, becoming too tired, we had entered that quiet little
restaurant to dine. He has misjudged me horribly. The sneak who
watched us must have lied to him, or he would never have spoken
to me as he did--he would not have insulted me. That night I
left him, and am here alone. Do not come near me, do not reply
to this. It might make matters worse. Though we are parted, Dig,
you know I love you and only you--_you_! Still your own MITTIE."

I sat staring at that half-faded letter, taking no heed of what Edwards
was saying.

The fountain! They had met at the fountain, and had been seen!

Could that spot be the same as mentioned in the mysterious letter left
behind by the fugitive Cane after the sudden death of the Englishman away
in far-off Peru?

Did someone, after all the lapse of years, go there on every twenty-third
of the month at noon wearing a yellow flower, to wait for a person who,
alas! never came?

The thought filled me with romance, even though we were at that moment
investigating a very remarkable tragedy. Yet surely in no city in this
world is there so much romance, so much pathos, such whole-hearted love
and affection, or such deep and deadly hatred as in our great palpitating
metropolis, where secret assassinations are of daily occurrence, and
where the most unpardonable sin is that of being found out.

"What's that you've got hold of?" Edwards asked me, as he crossed to the
table and bent over me.

I started.

Then, recovering myself--for I had no desire that he should
know--replied, quite coolly:

"Oh, only a few old letters--written long ago, in the eighties."

"Ah! Ancient history, eh?"

"Yes," I replied, packing them together and retying them with the soiled,
pink tape. "