“Come, come,” he said to himself. “This will never do. It is a coincidence, that is all. Society is made up of tiny circles. This is the most ordinary coincidence, such as happens to everyone at least once or twice in a lifetime.” Pulling himself together, he forced himself to grasp the situation. The unidentified corpse lying, a burden to strangers, in a London lodging-house. Dr. Hildyard, overweighted with work and all sorts of responsibilities, awaiting the return of the messenger below before the dead girl could be coffined. And upon himself depended the clue that would make proceedings easy. Roderick—Pym! Lilia’s cousin and possible future husband, Sir Roderick’s nephew and favourite, the dastard who ruined that fair young life? It was impossible. Utterly impossible—an idea untenable for a moment—he told himself, as he feverishly paced his room. Roderick was possibly a mutual friend of the actors in that wretched little tragedy. He did not believe that the poor young creature who had shown no symptoms of anger, no suspicion of revenge, would trust the identity of the man whom she loved, although he had illtreated her, to a mere stranger—although she might to a mutual friend. No. Roderick Pym was most likely the confidant, the bosom friend—some evil feeling suggested the Mephistopheles—of the love story. At all events, he must not betray him in the affair. He must temporise. By the time he had arrived at this conclusion, Hugh was more himself. He got out writing materials, and presently sent back Dr. Hildyard’s messenger with the following note:— “Dear Dr. Hildyard,—It is true that your patient entrusted me with a sealed packet, but I am in honour bound only to confide the packet, secretly, to another person. All I can do is to communicate at once with that person. I hope the upshot will be that I may speedily assure you as to the identity of the deceased lady. Yours most faithfully, “HUGH PAULL. “I will write, or see you, as soon as I have any information.” The messenger despatched, Hugh considered what was next to be done. His first impulse was to take the last train to Aldershot, and see Captain Pym. Second thoughts forbade this hasty move. “I know little or nothing of these military men,” he thought. His own code of morals and theirs must certainly differ. Still it was essential that he should gain some knowledge by means of that package, which most probably contained letters. After consideration, he resolved to surprise Roderick Pym into some admission. Unpleasant though it was to him to act, to use subterfuge, he told himself that his only course was to be diplomatic. Looking at his watch, he saw that to telegraph to Aldershot that night he must seek some central office. Fortunately, there was one not very far distant, from which he despatched this message:—