"Very good," said the inspector. "You are free to go. But you must

understand that you are an important witness in this case, and if you

attempt to leave London you will be locked up."

So I came back to my rooms, horribly entangled in a mystery that is

little to my liking. I have been sitting here in my study for some time,

going over it again and again. There have been many footsteps on the

stairs, many voices in the hall.

Waiting here for the dawn, I have come to be very sorry for the cold

handsome captain. After all, he was a man; his very tread on the floor

above, which it shall never hear again, told me that.

What does it all mean? Who was the man in the hall, the man who had

argued so loudly, who had struck so surely with that queer Indian knife?

Where is the knife now?

And, above all, what do the white asters signify? And the scarab

scarf-pin? And that absurd Homburg hat?

Lady of the Carlton, you wanted mystery. When I wrote that first letter

to you, little did I dream that I should soon have it to give you in

overwhelming measure.

And--believe me when I say it--through all this your face has been

constantly before me--your face as I saw it that bright morning in the

hotel breakfast room. You have forgiven me, I know, for the manner

in which I addressed you. I had seen your eyes and the temptation was

great--very great.

It is dawn in the garden now and London is beginning to stir. So this

time it is--good morning, my lady.

THE STRAWBERRY MAN.




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