at has been bothering me," added Sir Chichester.

"Well, that was one question," Martin resumed. "Here's the other. How,
when the news had reached the _Harpoon_ office, did it get printed in
the paper?"

Millie Splay found no difficulty in providing an explanation of that.

"It's sensational," she said disdainfully.

Martin shook his head.

"I don't think that's enough. The _Harpoon_, like lots of other
newspapers, has its social column, and in that column, no doubt, a
paragraph like this one about Stella would have a certain sensational
value. But supposing it wasn't true! A libel action follows, follows
inevitably. A great deal would be said about the unscrupulous
recklessness involved; the judge would come down like a cartload of
bricks and the paper would get badly stung. No editor of any reliable
paper would run such a risk. No sub-editor, left behind with power to
alter and insert, would have taken the responsibility. Before he printed
that item of news he would want corroboration of its truth. That's
certain. How did he get it? It was true news, and it was corroborated.
But, again, it was corroborated before the event happened. How?"

"I haven't an idea," cried Sir Chichester. "I thought I knew something
about getting things into the papers, but I see that I am a baby at it."

"It's much the more difficult question of the two," Hillyard agreed.
"But we will go back to the first one. How did the news reach the
_Harpoon_ office yesterday night? Perhaps you can guess?" and he looked
towards Harry Luttrell.

Luttrell, however, was at a loss.

"It's beyond me," he replied, and Martin Hillyard understood how that
one morning at the little hotel under the Hog's Back had given to him
and him alone the key by which the door upon these dark things might be
unlocked.

"The news arrived in the form of a letter marked urgent, which was
handed in by the chauffeur of a private motor-car just after midnight.
Of the time there is no doubt. I saw the editor myself. The issue would
already have gone to press, but late news was expected that night from
France, and the paper was waiting for it. Instead this letter came."

A look of bewilderment crept into the faces of the group about the
table.

"But who in the world could have written it?" cried Sir Chichester in
exasperation.

"It was written over your name."

"Mine?"

The bewilderment in Millie Splay's face deepened into anxiety. She
looked at her husband with