is
lips when he caught sight of Sir Richard's face.

"I say, I'm afraid you're ill, after all!" Anstice was genuinely
concerned; and Sir Richard's strained features relaxed into a smile.

"No, I'm perfectly well. Only, as I told you, I have been upset this
morning; and--well, I'll explain and you will see there _is_ something
to worry about."

Without more ado he walked over to his substantial roll-top desk, and
unlocking a drawer took from thence an envelope which he handled
gingerly as though it were unpleasing to him.

From the envelope he drew a sheet of thin paper; and Anstice, watching
him closely, felt still more mystified by his distasteful expression.

For a moment Sir Richard hesitated, still holding the sheet by the tips
of his fingers. Then, as though he had taken a sudden resolve, he turned
to Anstice abruptly.

"Look here, Anstice, this abominable thing reached me this morning. Now
of course I don't need you to tell me that the proper place for it is
the fire, and if it had not been for one circumstance connected with it,
it would have been in the flames by now. But as things are"--he broke
off suddenly and held the thin sheet out to the other man--"well, read
it, and then tell me what you think is the best course to pursue."

With a premonition of evil for which he could not account, Anstice took
the paper from Sir Richard and, turning to the window so that the pale
autumn sunlight might fall upon the letter, he read the few lines
scrawled in the middle of the sheet.

"Dr. Anstice is a murderer he killed a woman in India by shooting
her because she was in the way when he wanted to escape."

That was all. There was no heading, no signature, not even the cynical
assurance of well-wishing which is the hall-mark, so to speak, of the
typical anonymous letter; and as Anstice read the ill-written words his
first sensation was of wonder as to who his secret enemy might be.

When he had finished he turned the sheet over in his hands to see if
perchance the writer might have more to say; but the other side of the
paper was blank; and he looked at Sir Richard with an expression of
utter bewilderment.

"Well?" Sir Richard interrogated him with interest. "Pretty sort of
document, eh? I suppose the writing conveys nothing to your mind?"

"Nothing at all." Holding the paper to the light, Anstice examined the
ill-formed characters more closely. "It does not resemble any
handwriting I know. But I s