oftly in Mary Ellen's ear.

"Where's Mr. Doyle?" said Dr. O'Grady.

"As regards the visit of the Lord-Lieutenant," said Constable Moriarty
rousing himself and moving a little bit away from Mary Ellen, "what I
was saying this minute to Mary Ellen was----"

"Where's Mr. Doyle?" said Dr. O'Grady.

"He's within," said Mary Ellen. "Where else would he be?"

"As regards the Lord-Lieutenant," said Constable Moriarty, "and seeing
that Mary Ellen might be a near friend of the gentleman that the
statue's for----"

Dr. O'Grady hurried through the back door. He found Doyle sitting over
account books in his private-room. That was his way of spending Sunday
afternoon.

"A sheet of notepaper," said Dr. O'Grady. "Quick now, Doyle. I have my
fountain pen, so don't bother about ink."

"Where's the hurry?" said Doyle.

"There's every hurry."

He wrote rapidly, folded the letter, addressed it to Mrs. Ford, and
handed it to Doyle.

"Put that in your trousers' pocket," he said, "and roll it round a few
times. I want it to look as if it had been there for two or three days."

"What's the meaning of this at all?" said Doyle.

"Now get your hat. Go off as fast as you can pelt to Mr. Ford's house.
Give that letter to the servant and tell her that you only found out
this afternoon that you'd forgotten to post it."

"Will you tell me----?"

"I'll tell you nothing till you're back. Go on now, Doyle. Go at once.
If you hurry you'll get to the house before she does. She was two miles
out of the town when I left her and too exhausted to walk fast. But if
you do meet her remember that you haven't seen me since yesterday. Have
you got that clear in your head? Very well. Off with you. And, I say, I
expect the letter will be looking all right when you take it out again,
but if it isn't just rub it up and down the front of your trousers for
a while. I want it to be brownish and a good deal crumpled. It won't do
any harm if you blow a few puffs of tobacco over it."

CHAPTER IX

An hour later Doyle entered the doctor's consulting room.

"I have it done," he said. "I done what you bid me; but devil such a
job ever I had as what it was." Doyle had evidently suffered from some
strong emotion, anger perhaps, or terror. He felt in his pocket as he
spoke, and, finding that he had no handkerchief, he wiped his forehead
with the back of his hand. He looked at his hand afterwards and sighed.
The hairs on the back of it were pasted down