letter I had found there on my return. It was from Mary Blain, for whom

I had once long ago entertained a very strong affection, but who had since gone out of my life, leaving only a shadowy recollection of a midsummer madness, of clandestine meetings, of idle, careless days spent in company with a smart, eminently pretty, girl in blue serge skirt, cotton blouse and sailor hat. All was of the past. She had played me false. I was poor, and she had thrown me over for a man richer than myself. For nearly three years I had heard little of her; indeed, I confess that she had almost passed from my memory until that evening when I had sat awaiting Dick, and now on my return I opened that letter to discover it in her well-known, bold hand--the hand of an educated woman.

The letter, which had had some wanderings, as its envelope showed, and was dated from her father's house up the river, merely expressed a hope that I was in good health, and satisfaction at hearing news of me through a mutual friend. Such a letter struck me as rather strange. I could only account for it by the fact that she desired to resume our acquaintanceship, and that this was a woman's diplomatic way of opening negotiations. All women are born diplomatists, and woman's wit and powers of perception are far more acute than man's.

The letter brought back to me vividly the memory of that sweet, merry face beneath the sailor hat, the wealth of dark hair, the laughing eyes so dark and brilliant, the small white hands, and their wrists confined by their golden bangles. Yes, Mary Blain was uncommonly good-looking. Her face was one in ten thousand. But she was utterly heartless. I recollected how, when with her mother she had spent a summer at Eastbourne, what a sensation her remarkable beauty caused at Sunday parade on the Esplanade. She was lovely without consciousness of it, utterly ingenuous, and as ignorant of the world's wickedness as a child. The daughter of a wealthy City man who combined company-promoting with wine-importing, she had from childhood been nursed in the lap of luxury, and being the only child, was the idol of her parents. Their country house at Harwell, near Didcot, was in my father's parish, and from the time when her nurse used to bring her to the Rectory until that well-remembered evening when in the leafy by-lane I had for the last time turned my back upon her with a hasty word of denunciation, we had been closest friends. She had played me false. My hopes had been wrecked on Life's strange and trackless sea, and now whenever I thought of her it was only in bitterness. I have more than a suspicion that old Mr. Blain did not approve of our close acquaintanceship, knowing that I was a mere journalist with an almost untaxable income; nevertheless, she had continued to meet me, and many were the happy hours we spent together wandering through that charming country that skirts the upper reaches of the Thames.

In order to see her I used frequently to run down from London to my home on Saturdays and remain till Mondays. With her mother she sat in her seat in front of the Rectory pew, and as she walked down the aisle her face would be illumined by a glad light of welcome. How restful were those Sundays after the wear and tear of London life! How peaceful the days in that sleepy little village hidden away in a leafy hollow three miles from the Great Western line! After we had parted, however, I did not go home for six months. Then, on inquiry, I found that the Blains had sold their place, presumably because they were in want of money, for it was said that they had taken a smaller house facing the Thames, near Laleham, that village a little beyond Shepperton, where in the churchyard lies Matthew Arnold. From all accounts old Blain had lost heavily in speculation and had been compelled to sell his carriages and horses, dispose of many of his pictures, and even part with some of the Louis Seize furniture at Shenley Court, where they had lived. This was, of course, indicative of a very severe reverse of fortune.

Since those hours of Mary's love and her subsequent falseness, my life had been a queer series of ups and downs, as it must ever be in journalistic London. Many dreary days of changeful care had come and gone since then.

I sat silent, thinking, with her letter still open in my hand.

"Why are you so confoundedly glum, old man?" Dick asked. "What's your screed about? Duns in the offing?"

"No. It's nothing," I answered evasively, smiling.

"Then don't look so down in the mouth," he urged. "Have a peg, and pull yourself together." He had been in India, and consequently termed a whisky-and-soda a "peg." The origin of that expression is a little abstruse, but is supposed to refer pointedly to the pegs in one's coffin.

I thrust the letter into my pocket, helped myself to a drink, and lit a cigarette.

"It's a really first-class sensation," Dick said, again referring to the curious affair. "Pity I can't publish something of it to-morrow. It's a good thing chucked away."

"Yes," I replied. "But Patterson has some object in imposing secrecy on us."

"Of course," he answered thoughtfully.

There was a pause. We both smoked on. Not a sound penetrated there save the solemn ticking of the clock and the distant strains of a piano in some man's rooms across the square.

"Do you know, Frank," my companion said after some reflection, and looking at me with a rather curious expression--"do you know that I have some strange misgivings?"

"Misgivings!" I echoed. "Of what?"

"Well," he said, "did anything strike you as strange in Patterson's manner?"

"To tell the truth," I answered, "something did. His attitude was unusual--quite unusual, to-night."

"He's a funny Johnnie. That story of the snake on the pavement--isn't it rather too strange to be believed?"

"At first sight it appears extraordinary, but remember that in the laboratory upstairs we found other snakes. The occupier of the house evidently went in for the reptiles as pets."

"I quite agree with you there," he said. "But there are certain circumstances in the case which have aroused my suspicion, old chap. Of all the curious cases I've ever investigated while I've been on the _Comet_, this is the most astounding from every point of view, and I, for one, shan't rest until we've fully solved the problem."

"In that you'll have my heartiest assistance," I said. "All the time I can spare away from the office I'll devote to helping you."

"Good," Dick exclaimed heartily, refilling his pipe. "Between us we ought to find out something, for you and I can get at the bottom of things as soon as most people."

"The two strangest features of this case," I pointed out, "are first the telephonic message, and secondly, the disappearance of the first woman we found."

"And those cards!"

"And that penny wrapped so carefully in paper!" I added. "Yes, there are fully a dozen extraordinary features connected with the affair. The whole business is an absolute puzzle."

"Tell me, old chap," Dick said, after a pause, "what causes you to suspect Patterson?"

"I don't suspect him," I answered quickly. "No. I merely think that he has not told the exact truth of the first discovery of the crime, that's all."

"Exactly my own opinion," responded Dick. "He's concealing some very important fact from us--for what purpose we can't yet tell. There's more in this than we surmise. Of that I feel absolutely confident."

"The snake story is a little too good," I said, rather surprised that his suspicions should have been aroused, for I had not related to him my conversation with Patterson and his very lame excuse for not making a report of the discovery at the police-station. What had aroused Dick's suspicions I was extremely puzzled to know. But he was a shrewd, clever fellow, whose greatest delight was the investigation of crime and the obtaining of those "revelations" which middle-class London so eagerly devours.

"A very happy invention of an ingenious mind, my dear fellow," exclaimed the Mystery-monger. "Depend upon it, Patterson, being already aware that there were snakes in that house, invented the story, knowing that when the place was searched it would appear quite circumstantial."

"Then you think that he's not in absolute ignorance of who lived there?" I exclaimed, surprised at my friend's startling theory.

Dick nodded.

"I shouldn't be surprised if it be proved that he knew all along who the dead man is."

"Why?"

"Well, I noticed that he never once looked at that man's face. It was he who covered it with a handkerchief, as though the sight of the white countenance appalled him."

"Come come," I said, "proceed. You'll say that he's the guilty one next."

"Ah! no, my dear fellow," he hastened to reassure me. "You quite misunderstand my meaning. I hold the theory that in life these people were friends of Patterson's, that's all."

"What makes you suspect such a thing?"

"Well, I watched our friend very closely this evening, and that's the conclusion I've arrived at."

"You really think that he is concealing facts which might throw light on the affair?" I exclaimed, much surprised.

"Yes," he answered, "I feel certain of it--absolutely certain."