, though the
prosecutor secured some, the contents of which had not been disclosed.

Kennedy spent most of the day in tracing out the movements of
Thurston. Nothing that proved important was turned up and even visits
to near-by towns failed to show any sales of cyanide or sublimate
to any one not entitled to buy them. Meanwhile, in turning over the
gossip of the town, one of the newspapermen ran across the fact that
the Boncour bungalow was owned by the Posts, and that Halsey Post, as
the executor of the estate, was a more frequent visitor than the mere
collection of the rent would warrant. Mrs. Boncour maintained a stolid
silence that covered a seething internal fury when the newspaperman
in question hinted that the landlord and tenant were on exceptionally
good terms.

It was after a fruitless day of such search that we were sitting in
the reading-room of the Fairfield Hotel. Leland entered. His face was
positively white. Without a word he took us by the arm and led us
across Main Street and up a flight of stairs to his office. Then he
locked the door.

"What's the matter?" asked Kennedy.

"When I took this case," he said, "I believed down in my heart that
Dixon was innocent. I still believe it, but my faith has been rudely
shaken. I feel that you should know about what I have just found. As I
told you, we secured nearly all of Dr. Dixon's letters. I had not read
them all then. But I have been going through them to-night. Here is a
letter from Vera Lytton herself. You will notice it is dated the day
of her death."

He laid the letter before us. It was written in a curious
grayish-black ink in a woman's hand, and read:

* * * * *

DEAR HARRIS:

Since we agreed to disagree we have at least been good friends, if no
longer lovers. I am not writing in anger to reproach you with your
new love, so soon after the old. I suppose Alma Willard is far better
suited to be your wife than is a poor little actress--rather looked
down on in this Puritan society here. But there is something I wish to
warn you about, for it concerns us all intimately.

We are in danger of an awful mix-up if we don't look out. Mr.
Thurston--I had almost said my husband, though I don't know whether
that is the truth or not--who has just come over from New York, tells
me that there is some doubt about the validity of our divorce. You
recall he was in the South at the time I sued him, and the papers
were served on