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"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a

well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had

been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two

plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain

answer."

"Certainly, madam."

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given

to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

"Upon what point?"

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.

"Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking

keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

"You think that he is dead?"

"I do."

"Murdered?"

"I don't say that. Perhaps."

"And on what day did he meet his death?"

"On Monday."

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how

it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been

galvanised.