ith the family of the victim, who, I am pleased to say, have every
confidence in me, and look to me to clear the name of their unhappy
relative from the semi-imputation of suicide. I shall be pleased if
anyone who shares my distrust of the authorities, and who has any
clue whatever to this terrible mystery, or any plausible suggestion
to offer, if, in brief, any 'One who looks through his own
spectacles' will communicate with me. If I were asked to indicate
the direction in which new clues might be most usefully sought, I
should say, in the first instance, anything is valuable that helps
us to piece together a complete picture of the manifold activities
of the man in the East End. He entered one way or another into the
lives of a good many people; is it true that he nowhere made
enemies? With the best intentions a man may wound or offend; his
interference may be resented; he may even excite jealousy. A young
man like the late Mr. Constant could not have had as much practical
sagacity as he had goodness. Whose corns did he tread on? The more
we know of the last few months of his life the more we shall know
of the manner of his death. Thanking you by anticipation for the
insertion of this letter in your valuable columns, I am, sir, yours
truly,

"George Grodman.
"46 Glover Street, Bow."

"P. S.--Since writing the above lines I have, by the kindness of
Miss Brent, been placed in possession of a most valuable letter,
probably the last letter written by the unhappy gentleman. It is
dated Monday, 3 December, the very eve of the murder, and was
addressed to her at Florence, and has now, after some delay,
followed her back to London where the sad news unexpectedly brought
her. It is a letter couched, on the whole, in the most hopeful
spirit, and speaks in detail of his schemes. Of course, there are
things in it not meant for the ears of the public, but there can be
no harm in transcribing an important passage:

"'You seem to have imbibed the idea that the East End is a kind of
Golgotha, and this despite that the books out of which you probably
got it are carefully labeled "Fiction." Lamb says somewhere that we
think of the "Dark Ages" as literally without sunlight, and so I
fancy people like you, dear, think of the "East End" as a mixture
of m