only an accessory to a foul murder, but also a fugitive thief.

One new fact was established by the post-mortem examination of the
victims. Considerable violence had been used to overcome the struggles
of the servant, Hussein. His neck was almost dislocated, and there was a
large bruise on his back which might have been caused by the knee of an
assailant endeavouring to garrotte him.

They were discussing this discovery and its possible significance when
Smith entered, bearing a lady's visiting-card, which he silently handed
to his master.

Brett read the name inscribed thereon. He merely said, "Show the lady
in." Then he turned to the Earl of Fairholme, electrifying the latter by
the words: "Miss Edith Talbot is here."

An instant later Miss Talbot came into the room. The three men knew that
she brought momentous, perchance direful, intelligence. She was deathly
pale. Her eyes were unnaturally brilliant, her mouth set in tense
resolution.

"Mr. Brett," she said, after a single glance at her lover, "we have
received a letter from my brother."

"A letter from Jack!" cried Fairholme.

"Well, I never did!" ejaculated Mr. Winter.

But Brett only said--

"Have you brought it with you, Miss Talbot?"

"Yes; it is here. My uncle, who was too ill to accompany me, thought you
ought to see it at once," and she handed a torn envelope to him.

He glanced at the postmark.

"It was posted in Paris last evening," he said, his cool utterance
sending a thrill through the listeners. "Is the address written by him?"
he added.

"Oh, yes. It is undoubtedly from Jack."

Here was a woman moulded on the same inscrutable lines as the man whom
she faced. Seldom, indeed, would either of these betray the feelings
which agitated them. Then he took out the folded letter. It contained
but three lines, and was undated.

"My dear Uncle and Sister," it ran. "I am in a position of some
difficulty, but am quite safe personally.--Ever yours, JACK."

Mr. Winter was the first to recover his equanimity. He could not control
the note of triumph in his voice.

"What do you think of it now, Mr. Brett?"

The barrister ignored him, save for a glance which seemed to express
philosophical doubt as to whether Mr. Winter's head contained brains or
sawdust.

"You are quite positive that both letter and envelope are in your
brother's handwriting?" he said.

"Absolutely positive."

"There can be no doubt about it," chimed in Fairholme, to