e said she had writer's cramp.
Suppose she dictated a portion of the story to Mrs. Meredith, and
suppose in that story there occurred this letter: Lydia would have put
the quotation marks mechanically."

The detective took the letter from his hand.

"It is possible," he said. "The writing is very even--it shows no sign
of agitation, and of course the character's initials might be 'L.M.' It
is an ingenious hypothesis, and not wholly improbable, but if this were
a part of the story, there would be other sheets. Would you like me to
search the house?"

Jack shook his head.

"She's much too clever to have them in the house," he said. "More likely
she's put them in the fire."

"What fire?" asked the detective dryly. "These houses have no fires,
they're central heated--unless she went to the kitchen."

"Which she wouldn't do," said Jack thoughtfully. "No, she'd burn them in
the garden."

The detective nodded, and they returned to the house.

Jean, deep in conversation with her father, saw them reappear, and
watched them as they walked slowly across the lawn toward the trees,
their eyes fixed on the ground.

"What are they looking for?" she asked with a frown.

"I'll go and see," said Briggerland, but she caught his arm.

"Do you think they'll tell you?" she asked sarcastically.

She ran up to her own room and watched them from behind a curtain.
Presently they passed out of sight to the other side of the house, and
she went into Lydia's room and overlooked them from there. Suddenly she
saw the detective stoop and pick up something from the ground, and her
teeth set.

"The burnt story," she said. "I never dreamt they'd look for that."

It was only a scrap they found, but it was in Lydia's writing, and the
pencil mark was clearly visible on the charred ashes.

"'Laura Martin,'" read the detective. "'L.M.,' and there are the words
'tragic' and 'remorse'."

From the remainder of the charred fragments they collected nothing of
importance. Jean watched them disappear along the avenue, and went down
to her father.

"I had a fright," she said.

"You look as if you've still got it," he said. He eyed her keenly.

She shook her head.

"Father, you must understand that this adventure may end disastrously.
There are ninety-nine chances against the truth being known, but it is
the extra chance that is worrying me. We ought to have settled Lydia
more quietly, more naturally. There was too much melodrama and shooting