se, in the light of what subsequently happened,
we should have heard something of this letter before now. If it had been
produced at the inquest I fancy it would have made some difference in the
course of affairs. The evidence, as you remarked just now, choked off
suspicion against Sebastien by disclosing an utter absence of anything
that could be considered a motive or provocation for the crime, if crime
there was."

"Oh, read the letter," said Sir Lulworth impatiently.

"It's a long rambling affair, like most of his letters in his later
years," said Egbert. "I'll read the part that bears immediately on the
mystery.

"'I very much fear I shall have to get rid of Sebastien. He cooks
divinely, but he has the temper of a fiend or an anthropoid ape, and I am
really in bodily fear of him. We had a dispute the other day as to the
correct sort of lunch to be served on Ash Wednesday, and I got so
irritated and annoyed at his conceit and obstinacy that at last I threw a
cupful of coffee in his face and called him at the same time an impudent
jackanapes. Very little of the coffee went actually in his face, but I
have never seen a human being show such deplorable lack of self-control.
I laughed at the threat of killing me that he spluttered out in his rage,
and thought the whole thing would blow over, but I have several times
since caught him scowling and muttering in a highly unpleasant fashion,
and lately I have fancied that he was dogging my footsteps about the
grounds, particularly when I walk of an evening in the Italian Garden.'

"It was on the steps in the Italian Garden that the body was found,"
commented Egbert, and resumed reading.

"'I daresay the danger is imaginary; but I shall feel more at ease when
he has quitted my service.'"

Egbert paused for a moment at the conclusion of the extract; then, as his
uncle made no remark, he added: "If lack of motive was the only factor
that saved Sebastien from prosecution I fancy this letter will put a
different complexion on matters."

"Have you shown it to anyone else?" asked Sir Lulworth, reaching out his
hand for the incriminating piece of paper.

"No," said Egbert, handing it across the table, "I thought I would tell
you about it first. Heavens, what are you doing?"

Egbert's voice rose almost to a scream. Sir Lulworth had flung the paper
well and truly into the glowing centre of the grate. The small, neat
handwriting shrivelled into black flaky nothingnes