"Where is it?" cried White. "Is it genuine?" "I could swear to her writing amidst a thousand letters. Here it is. I have brought some old correspondence of hers for the purpose of comparison, as I could hardly believe my eyes when I first received it." Bruce was so dumfounded by this remarkable development that he could but mutely take the document produced by the baronet and read it. He himself recognized Lady Dyke's handwriting, which he had often seen--a clear, bold, well-defined script, more like the caligraphy of a banker than of a fashionable lady. The letter was dated February 1, bore no other superscription, and read as follows: "_My Dear Charles_,--I have just seen in the newspapers the announcement of my death, and the theories set on foot to account for my disappearance on November 6. This seems to convey to me the strange fact that you have not received the explanation I sent you of my reasons for leaving London so suddenly. Otherwise you must have kept your own counsel very closely. However, I do not now desire to reopen the question of motive; let it suffice to say that no one save myself was responsible for my disappearance, and that neither you nor any one acquainted with me will ever see me again. Do not search for me; it will be time wasted. If you have legal proof of my death and wish to marry again, be satisfied. Tear up this letter and forget it. I am dead--to you and to the world. You can neither refuse to accept the genuineness of this letter nor trace me by reason of it, as I have taken such precautions that the latter course will be impossible. Let me repeat--forget me. "ALICE." The barrister carefully refolded the sheet after scrutinizing the water-mark against the light, and noting that the paper was British made; he then examined the envelope. The obliterating postmark was "London, February 4, 9 P.M., West Strand." The office of delivery was "Wensley, February 6." "Posted at the West Strand Post-Office on Saturday," he said. "Detained in London all Sunday, and delivered to you this morning in the North." "Exactly." "It was written three days earlier, if the date be accurate. So the writer is somewhere in Europe." "That's how I take it," said Sir Charles. "Unless the whole thing is a fraud." "How can it be a fraud? I am sure as to the handwriting. Why, even yourself, Bruce, must have a good recollection of my wife's style." "Undoubtedly. No man born could swear that this was not Lady Dyke's production." "Well, what are we to do?"