The reason was enough for Moira, or at least she made it suffice. She would find out the truth before long, and in any case it could not concern herself. For it was incredible to her that Rob, in the face of their definite understanding, had mentioned her at home. “At home!” How naturally she used the phrase. Well, there was much to be cleared up--both there and here. She troubled herself no more about the letter. She laid it with the others on Osprey’s table, took the children up to Nana to look after, and went off for a long walk. By ten o’clock that night she was in bed asleep. * * * * * The two men drove up to the farmhouse, in accordance with their plan, at about two o’clock in the morning in Roget’s car. They lingered in the hall and studio for a few moments and went upstairs, the painter taking his mail with him. Some hours later the same sound woke not only Roget, but Moira, down in the cottage. It was a sharp report, and her first clear thought was that a passing automobile had back-fired, perhaps Emmet Roget’s, just arriving. She sat up for a time listening and then prepared to sleep again. Some one knocked on the outside door. It was the producer, looking ominous as he stood in the half darkness, in a long black dressing gown. “Mrs. Harlindew, an accident has happened,” he said gravely. “I think, perhaps, I had better ask you to step up to the house with me.” She went with him up the steep bank, thoroughly unnerved. His hold on her arm was firm and decidedly helpful on the rough path. They passed through the lower part of the house and upstairs without a word. She knew before she arrived what had happened and dared not ask the question on her lips. Osprey lay on his bed dressed, with a small, old-fashioned revolver in his hand. He was not breathing. The round, bleeding wound was near one temple. On the table beside him lay a photograph of herself, face up, the face of a half-smiling girl of eighteen. Beside it was Mathilda’s letter. Moira snatched the letter and read, at first rapidly, then very attentively and slowly. “My dear Mr. Osprey,” it began: You will not remember an old woman of your native city, but I used to meet your father at the Round Robin Club long ago and admired his wit and character. I was even introduced to you once, when you were a very little boy. You had been left there one night to be taken home. Since then, of course, I have followed, though at a distance, your progress in the world as an artist. But it is not merely to presume on this slender acquaintance that I write to you.