with a gloomy frown, shortly said:

"The language is not that of an ignorant old creature like Sally
Perkins, whatever the writing may be. Besides, how could she have known
about the ring? The persons who were present at the time it was picked
up are not of the gossiping order."

"Who, then, do you think wrote this?" inquired Mr. Byrd.

"That is what I wish you to find out," declared the District Attorney.

Mr. Hickory at once took it in his hand.

"Wait," said he, "I have an idea." And he carried the letter to one
side, where he stood examining it for several minutes. When he came back
he looked tolerably excited and somewhat pleased. "I believe I can tell
you who wrote it," said he.

"Who?" inquired the District Attorney.

For reply the detective placed his finger upon a name that was written
in the letter.

"Imogene Dare?" exclaimed Mr. Ferris, astonished.

"She herself," proclaimed the self-satisfied detective.

"What makes you think that?" the District Attorney slowly asked.

"Because I have seen her writing, and studied her signature, and, ably
as she has disguised her hand in the rest of the letter, it betrays
itself in her name. See here." And Hickory took from his pocket-book a
small slip of paper containing her autograph, and submitted it to the
test of comparison.

The similarity between the two signatures was evident, and both Mr. Byrd
and Mr. Ferris were obliged to allow the detective might be right,
though the admission opened up suggestions of the most formidable
character.

"It is a turn for which I am not prepared," declared the District
Attorney.

"It is a turn for which _we_ are not prepared," repeated Mr. Byrd, with
a controlling look at Hickory.

"Let us, then, defer further consideration of the matter till I have had
an opportunity to see Miss Dare," suggested Mr. Ferris.

And the two detectives were very glad to acquiesce in this, for they
were as much astonished as he at this action of Miss Dare, though, with
their better knowledge of her feelings, they found it comparatively easy
to understand how her remorse and the great anxiety she doubtless felt
for Mr. Hildreth had sufficed to drive her to such an extreme and
desperate measure.

XX.

A CRISIS.

_Queen._ Alas, how is it with you?
That you do bend your eye on vacancy,
And with the incorporeal air do hold discourse?

* * * * *

Your bedded