n't seem to fit the circumstances. What is the use of
suggesting that poor Uncle John is alive--and behaving like an imbecile,
which he certainly was not--when his dead body has actually been found?"

"But," I suggested lamely, "there may be some mistake. It may not be his
body after all."

"And the ring?" she asked, with a bitter smile.

"That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form of
antique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as your
uncle. Besides," I added, with more conviction, "we haven't seen the
ring. It may not be his at all."

She shook her head. "My dear Paul," she said quietly, "it is useless to
delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that it is
his body. John Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that. And to
everyone except his unknown murderer and one or two of my own loyal
friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realised from
the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me; and
the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am only surprised
that the police have made no move yet."

The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while speechless with
horror and despair. Then I recalled Thorndyke's calm, even confident
attitude, and I hastened to remind her of it.

"There is one of your friends," I said, "who is still undismayed.
Thorndyke seems to anticipate no difficulties."

"And yet," she replied, "he is ready to consider a forlorn hope like
this. However, we shall see."

I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silence that
we pursued our way down Inner Temple Lane and through the dark entries
and tunnel-like passages that brought us out, at length, by the
Treasury.

"I don't see any light in Thorndyke's chambers," I said, as we crossed
King's Bench Walk; and I pointed out the row of windows all dark and
blank.

"No: and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out."

"He can't be after making an appointment with you and your father. It is
most mysterious. Thorndyke is so very punctilious about his
engagements."

The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing, by a slip of paper
fixed by a tack on the iron-bound "oak."

"A note for P.B. is on the table," was the laconic message: on reading
which I inserted my key, swung the heavy door outward, and opened the
lighter inner door. The note was lying on the table and I brought it
out to the landing to read by