“Before you become too enthusiastic, Sir Harold, I wish you to listen to a few particulars. From the very first I had no belief in the story of the vendetta, save in the imagination of Mr. Hamilton. We have investigated dozens of such stories, and discovered them to be mere bubbles. Upon leaving you yesterday I telegraphed for particulars of Lambert Egerton, Count Crispi, and Theresa Ludovic to no less than four reliable agents stationed in Italy. The replies satisfy me that the relatives of Count Crispi made a few threats when the surgeon, Lambert Egerton, ran away with the ward of his illustrious client. There the matter ended, save in the imagination of Egerton himself.” Annesley shook his head impatiently. “But the man who was stabbed in the streets of London--the man who resembled Egerton?” he asked. “No such thing ever took place--not as described by Lady Annesley’s father. My assistants have made an exhaustive search through the records,” smiled Mr. Asbury. “The fact is Mr. Hamilton--or Mr. Egerton--became a monomaniac upon that one subject. His mind dwelt upon it until he thoroughly believed in it.” Still Annesley was not convinced. “The badly-scrawled note that I found upon the night of his death. How do you account for that?” “Without a doubt he wrote it himself,” the detective said, confidently. “I have met with similar cases, Sir Harold.” “Mr. Asbury, I am woefully disappointed,” the baronet said. “Nothing but theory--not one atom of fact. And yet you talk of making an arrest!” “Yes; and it depends upon you whether it is wise to take such a step. You admit having let one other person into the secret--the secret of this supposed danger that menaces you and Lady Annesley.” “Well?” “This person is the author of the last anonymous warning, and if you insist upon an arrest, you will be called upon to prosecute your cousin--Miss Margaret Nugent!” Sir Harold stared at the detective--pale and speechless for a minute. The monstrous charge against Margaret appeared too much to believe. Then he thought of what Lady Elaine had said--of Theresa’s dislike, and exclaimed, huskily: “Proof! proof!” “As plain as the nose on my face,” Mr. Asbury smiled. “I submitted the letter of warning, or whatever the nonsense may be termed, to one of the best experts in handwriting in all London, together with an assortment of the letters you gave me. My expert unhesitatingly declared that the writer of the letters signed Margaret Nugent was author of the anonymous one delivered here by hand. If you are not yet fully satisfied we can find the boy who brought the letter, though it may occupy several days. A reward must be offered, and advertisements put in the papers.”