the startling discovery that the captain had never heard of his cousin;
and of my subsequent unpleasant position. He leaned back in his chair
and closed his eyes.

"I suppose," he said, "that no man ever carries an unsealed letter of
introduction without opening it to read just what praises have been
lavished upon him. It is human nature--I have done it often. May I make
so bold as to inquire--"

"Yes," said I. "It was unsealed and I did read it. Considering its
purpose, it struck me as rather long. There were many warm words for
me--words beyond all reason in view of my brief acquaintance with
Enwright. I also recall that he mentioned how long he had been in
Interlaken, and that he said he expected to reach London about the first
of August."

"The first of August," repeated the colonel. "That is to-morrow. Now--if
you'll be so kind--just what happened last night?"

Again I ran over the events of that tragic evening--the quarrel; the
heavy figure in the hall; the escape by way of the seldom-used gate.

"My boy," said Colonel Hughes as he rose to go, "the threads of this
tragedy stretch far--some of them to India; some to a country I will not
name. I may say frankly that I have other and greater interest in the
matter than that of the captain's friend. For the present that is in
strict confidence between us; the police are well-meaning, but they
sometimes blunder. Did I understand you to say that you have copies of
the Mail containing those odd messages?"

"Right here in my desk," said I. I got them for him.

"I think I shall take them--if I may," he said. "You will, of course,
not mention this little visit of mine. We shall meet again. Good
morning."

And he went away, carrying those papers with their strange signals to
Rangoon.

Somehow I feel wonderfully cheered by his call. For the first time since
seven last evening I begin to breathe freely again.

And so, lady who likes mystery, the matter stands on the afternoon of
the last day of July, nineteen hundred and fourteen.

I shall mail you this letter to-night. It is my third to you, and it
carries with it three times the dreams that went with the first; for
they are dreams that live not only at night, when the moon is on the
courtyard, but also in the bright light of day.

Yes--I am remarkably cheered. I realize that I have not eaten at
all--save a cup of coffee from the trembling hand of Walters--since
last night, at Simpson's. I am going now to dine.