It is hardly necessary to intimate that this letter came as something of

a shock to the young woman who received it. For the rest of that day the

many sights of London held little interest for her--so little, indeed,

that her perspiring father began to see visions of his beloved Texas;

and once hopefully suggested an early return home. The coolness with

which this idea was received plainly showed him that he was on the wrong

track; so he sighed and sought solace at the bar.

That night the two from Texas attended His Majesty's Theater, where

Bernard Shaw's latest play was being performed; and the witty Irishman

would have been annoyed to see the scant attention one lovely young

American in the audience gave his lines. The American in question

retired at midnight, with eager thoughts turned toward the morning.

And she was not disappointed. When her maid, a stolid Englishwoman,

appeared at her bedside early Saturday she carried a letter, which

she handed over, with the turned-up nose of one who aids but does not

approve. Quickly the girl tore it open.

DEAR Texas LADY: I am writing this late in the afternoon. The sun is

casting long black shadows on the garden lawn, and the whole world is

so bright and matter-of-fact I have to argue with myself to be convinced

that the events of that tragic night through which I passed really

happened.

The newspapers this morning helped to make it all seem a dream; not a

line--not a word, that I can find. When I think of America, and how

by this time the reporters would be swarming through our house if this

thing had happened over there, I am the more astonished. But then, I

know these English papers. The great Joe Chamberlain died the other

night at ten, and it was noon the next day when the first paper to carry

the story appeared--screaming loudly that it had scored a beat. It had.

Other lands, other methods.

It was probably not difficult for Bray to keep journalists such as these

in the dark. So their great ungainly sheets come out in total ignorance

of a remarkable story in Adelphi Terrace. Famished for real news, they

begin to hint at a huge war cloud on the horizon. Because tottering

Austria has declared war on tiny Serbia, because the Kaiser is to-day

hurrying, with his best dramatic effect, home to Berlin, they see all

Europe shortly bathed in blood. A nightmare born of torrid days and

tossing nights!

But it is of the affair in Adelphi Terrace that you no doubt want to

hear. One sequel of the tragedy, which adds immeasurably to the mystery

of it all, has occurred, and I alone am responsible for its discovery.

But to go back: I returned from mailing your letter at dawn this morning, very tired

from the tension of the night. I went to bed, but could not sleep.

More and more it was preying on my mind that I was in a most unhappy

position. I had not liked the looks cast at me by Inspector Bray, or his

voice when he asked how I came to live in this house. I told myself

I should not be safe until the real murderer of the poor captain

was found; and so I began to puzzle over the few clues in the

case--especially over the asters, the scarab pin and the Homburg hat.




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