Deep in reflection, the doctor strode on; when, in passing Mrs. Gass's house, a sharp tapping at the window saluted his ear. It came from that lady herself, and she threw up the sash. "Just come in, will you, Dr. Rane? I want you for something very particular." He felt sure she only wanted to question him about the death, and would a great deal rather have gone on: but with her red and smiling face inviting him in peremptorily, he did not see his way to refusing her. "And so he is _gone_--that poor young man!" she began, meeting him in her smart dress and pink cap. "When I heard the death-bell ring out this morning, it sounded to me a'most like my own knell." "Yes, he is gone--unhappily," murmured Dr. Rane. "Well, now, doctor, the next thing is--what became of you yesterday?" The change of subject appeared peculiar. "Became of me?" repeated Dr. Rane. "How do you mean?" "All the mortal day I was stuck at this parlour window, waiting to see you go by," proceeded Mrs. Gass. "You never passed once." "Yes, I did. I passed in the morning." "My eyes must have gone a-maying then, for they never saw you," was Mrs. Gass's answer. "It was before my usual hour. I was called out early to a sick man in Dallory, and I took the opportunity to see Ketler at the same time." "Then that accounts for the milk in the cocoa-nuts; and I wasted my time for nothing," was her good-tempered rejoinder. "Why did you want to see me pass?" Mrs. Gass paused for a moment before replying. She glanced round to see that the door was closed, and dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "Dr. Rane, who wrote that fatal letter?" "I cannot tell." "Did _you?_" Oliver Rane stared at her, a sudden flush of anger dyeing his brow. No wonder: the question, put with emphatic earnestness, seemed an assertion, almost like that startling reproach of Nathan to David. "Mrs. Gass, I do not know what you mean." "I see you don't relish it, doctor. But I am a plain body, as you know; and when in doubt about a thing, pleasant or unpleasant, I like to ask an explanation straight out." "But why should you be in doubt about this?" he inquired wonderingly. "What can induce you to connect me with the letter?" Mrs. Gass took her portly person across the room to a desk; unlocked it, and brought forth a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Dr. Rane. It was not a letter; it could not be the copy of one: but it did appear to be the rough sketch of the anonymous missive that had reached Mr. North. Some of the sentences were written two or three times over; in a close hand, in a scrawling hand, in a reversed hand, as if the writer were practising different styles; in others the construction was altered, words were erased, others substituted. Oliver Rane gazed upon it as one in complete bewilderment. "What _is_ this, Mrs. Gass?" "Is it not the skeleton of the letter?"