t that Malcolm Sage indicated beside him.
Silently the six men waited.

A few minutes later Miss Crayne entered, pale but self-possessed.
She closed the door behind her. Suddenly she caught sight of the
curate. Her eyes widened, and her paleness seemed to become
accentuated. A moment later it was followed by a crimson flush. She
hesitated, her hands clenched at her side, then with a manifest
effort she appeared to control herself and, with a slight smile and
inclination of her head, took the chair the schoolmaster moved
towards her. Instinctively she turned her eyes toward Malcolm Sage.

"Inspector Murdy," he said, without raising his eyes, "will you
please open two of those packets?" He indicated the pile upon his
left. "I should explain," he continued, "that each of these contains
one of the most recent of the series of letters with which we are
concerned. Each was sealed up by Mr. Crayne immediately it reached
him, in accordance with Inspector Murdy's request. Therefore, only
the writer, the recipient and the vicar have had access to these
letters."

Malcolm Sage turned his eyes interrogatingly upon Mr. Crayne, who
bowed.

Meanwhile the inspector had cut open the two top envelopes, unfolded
the sheets of paper they contained, and handed them to Malcolm Sage.

All eyes were fixed upon his long, shapely fingers as he smoothed
out one of the sheets of paper upon the vicar's blotting-pad. Then,
lifting the steel plate by the handle, he placed it upon the
upturned sheet of paper.

The tension was almost unendurable. The heavy breathing of Inspector
Murdy seemed like the blowing of a grampus. Mr. Gray glanced across
at him irritably. The vicar coughed slightly, then looked startled
that he had made so much noise.

Everyone bent forward, eagerly expecting something; yet without
quite knowing what. Malcolm Sage lifted the metal plate from the
letter. There in the centre of the page, in bluish-coloured letters,
which had not been there when the paper was smoothed out upon the
blotting-pad, appeared the words:----

Malcolm Sage,
August 12th, 1919.
No. 138.

For some moments they all gazed at the paper as if the mysterious
blue letters exercised upon them some hypnotic influence.

"Secret ink!"

It was Robert Freynes who spoke. Accustomed as he was to dramatic
moments, he was conscious of a strange dryness at the back of his
throat, and a consequent huskiness of voice.

His remark seemed to break the