a sudden sinking of her heart. Had his foible
developed into a madness? Such things had been. A little gasp broke from
her lips.

"But not in your handwriting," Hillyard hastened to add.

"Whose then?" asked Harry Luttrell suddenly.

"Stella's," answered Hillyard.

A shiver ran from one to the other of that small company, and discomfort
kept them silent. A vague dread stole in upon their minds. It was as
though some uncanny presence were in the room. They had eaten with
Stella Croyle in this room, played with her out there in the sunlit
garden, and only one of them had suspected the overwhelming despair
which had driven her so hard. They began to blame themselves. "Poor
woman! Poor woman!" Millie Splay whispered in a moan.

Sir Chichester broke the silence.

"But we left Stella here when we went to Harrel," he began, and Hillyard
interrupted him.

"There's no doubt that Stella sent the message," he said. "Your car,
Mrs. Brown's and Luttrell's, were all used to take us to Harrel. One car
remained in your garage--Stella's."

"But there wouldn't be time for that car to reach London." Sir
Chichester fought against Hillyard's statement. He did not want to
believe it. He did not want to think of it. It brought him within too
near a view of that horrid brink where overtried nature grows dizzy and
whirls down into blackness.

"Just time," Hillyard answered relentlessly, "if you will follow me.
Joan certainly returned here last night--that I know, as you know. But
she was back again in the ball-room at Harrel within a few minutes of
ten o'clock. She must have left Mrs. Croyle a quarter before ten--that,
at the latest."

"Yes," Millie Splay agreed.

"Well, I have myself crossed Putney Bridge after leaving here, within
ten minutes under the two hours. And that in the daytime. Stella had
time enough for her purpose. It was night and little traffic on the
road. She writes her letter, sends Jenny with it to the garage, and the
car reaches the _Harpoon_ office by twelve."

"But its return?" asked Sir Chichester.

"Simpler still. Your gates were left open last night, and we returned
from Harrel at four in the morning. Stella's chauffeur hands in his
letter, comes back by the way he went and is home here at Rackham an
hour and a half before we thought of saying good-bye to Mrs. Willoughby.
That is the way it happened. That is the way it must have happened,"
Hillyard concluded energetically. "For it's the only way it cou