rn. It is a very
gratifying letter--M'sieur will see that for himself!"

Chester took the folded-up piece of notepaper out of the little
Frenchman's hand with a strange feeling of misgiving.

He came out into the hall and stood under the cut-glass chandelier--

"You have made a mistake," he exclaimed quickly; "this is not Mrs.
Bailey's handwriting!"

"Oh, yes, M'sieur, it is certainly Mrs. Bailey's letter. You see there is
the lady's signature written as plainly as possible!"

Chester looked down to where the man's fat finger pointed.

In the strange, the alien handwriting, were written two words which for
a moment conveyed nothing to Chester, "Silvea" and "Baylee"; as for the
writing, stiff, angular, large, it resembled Sylvia's sloping English
caligraphy as little as did the two words purporting to be her signature
resemble the right spelling of her name.

A thrill of fear, of terrifying suspicion, flooded Bill Chester's shrewd
but commonplace mind.

Slowly he read the strange letter through:

"Monsieur Polperro (so ran the missive in French)--

"I am leaving Lacville this evening in order to join my friend Madame
Wolsky. I request you therefore to send on my luggage to the cloak room
at the Gare du Nord. I enclose a hundred-franc note to pay you what I
owe. Please distribute the rest of the money among the servants. I beg
to inform you that I have been exceedingly comfortable at the Villa du
Lac, and I will recommend your hotel to all my friends.

"Yours very cordially,

"Sylvea Baylee."

Turning on his heel, and without even throwing a word of apology to the
astonished, and by now indignant, M. Polperro, Chester rushed out of the
hall and down the stone steps, below which stood the victoria.

"Well?" cried out Paul de Virieu.

"Come into the house--now, at once!" cried Chester, roughly. "Something
extraordinary has happened!"--

The Count jumped out of the carriage, and a moment later the two men
stood together in the hall, careless of the fact that M. Polperro was
staring at them with affrighted eyes.

"This letter purports to be from Sylvia Bailey," exclaimed Chester
hoarsely, "but of course it is nothing of the sort! She never wrote a
line of it. It's entirely unlike her handwriting--and then look at the
absurd signature! What does it mean, Virieu? Can you give me any clue to
what it means?"

The Comte de Virieu raised his head from over the thin sheet of
notepaper, and ev