was the hurried reply. "Oh, I think there is something in it."

"Something in it?"

"Yes. Mr. Mansell is the last man to wear a ring, I must acknowledge.
Indeed, I took some pains while in Buffalo to find out if he ever
indulged in any such vanity, and was told decidedly No. As to the
diamond you mentioned, that is certainly entirely too rich a jewel for a
man like him to possess. I--I am a afraid the absence of this link in
our chain of evidence is fatal. I shouldn't wonder if the old scent was
the best, after all."

"But Miss Dare--her feelings and her convictions, as manifested by the
words she made use of in the hut?" objected Mr. Byrd.

"Oh! _she_ thinks he is guilty, of course!"

_She_ thinks! Mr. Byrd stared at his companion for a minute in silence.
_She_ thinks! Then there was a possibility, it seems, that it was only
her thought, and that Mr. Mansell was not really the culpable man he had
been brought to consider him.

But here an exclamation, uttered by Mr. Ferris, called their attention
back to that gentleman. He was reading a letter which had evidently been
just brought in, and his expression was one of amazement, mixed with
doubt. As they looked toward him they met his eye, that had a troubled
and somewhat abashed expression, which convinced them that the
communication he held in his hand was in some way connected with the
matter under consideration.

Surprised themselves, they unconsciously started forward, when, in a dry
and not altogether pleased tone, the District Attorney observed:

"This affair seems to be full of coincidences. You talk of a missing
link, and it is immediately thrust under your nose. Read that!"

And he pushed toward them the following epistle, roughly scrawled on a
sheet of common writing-paper:

If Mr. Ferris is anxious for justice, and can
believe that suspicion does not always attach
itself to the guilty, let him, or some one whose
business it is, inquire of Miss Imogene Dare, of
this town, how she came to claim as her own the
ring that was picked up on the floor of Mrs.
Clemmens' house.

"Well!" cried Mr. Byrd, glancing at Hickory, "what are we to think of
this?"

"Looks like the work of old Sally Perkins," observed the other, pointing
out the lack of date and signature.

"So it does," acquiesced Mr. Byrd, in a relieved tone. "The miserable
old wretch is growing impatient."

But Mr. Ferris,