“No,” she said, “but in the night I have been thinking things out, and I have decided that Jane knows something about these crimes. From all the descriptions I have had of this girl I can reach no other conclusion than that she has something to do with the burglaries.” The girl laughed. “Don’t you think Jamieson may also have had something to do with them?” she asked satirically, and Mrs. Wilberforce tightened her lips. “You have a very bitter tongue, Joyce; I am rather sorry for poor Francis.” The girl rose and walked across to the window, staring out across the park, and Mrs. Wilberforce eyed her anxiously. “You are a queer girl, Joyce,” she said, “you are going to be married to-morrow, and to-morrow you will be a rich woman in your own right. One might imagine that you were going to be hanged.” A maid came in at this moment. “Lord Claythorpe and Mr. Claythorpe,” she announced, and Mrs. Wilberforce arose with a beaming face. The youth who followed his lordship into the room was tall and lank. A small weak face on an absurdly small head, round shoulders, long and awkward arms--if Joyce did not look like a bride in prospective, this young man certainly had no appearance of being a bridegroom of the morrow. He gave Mrs. Wilberforce a limp hand and shuffled across to the girl. “I say,” he said in a high-pitched voice, which ended in a little giggle, “awfully bad luck about losing those pearls, what?” The girl looked at him thoughtfully. “How do you feel about getting married, Francis?” she asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely; “it really doesn’t make much difference to me. Of course, I shall have to explain to quite a lot of people, and there’ll be a lot of heartaches and all that sort of thing.” She could have laughed, but she kept a straight face. “Yes, I suppose I have disappointed a number of very charming friends of yours,” she said drily, “still, they can’t all have this paragon.” “That’s what I say,” said Mr. Claythorpe, and then giggled again, his hand straying to his pocket. This young man had no small opinion of his own powers of fascination, and was, by his own standards, something of a Lothario. “What’s so jolly amusing,” he said with a little snigger, “is that not only the people one knows are upset, but quite a lot of unknown people. People, or girls I have quite forgotten are terribly distressed about it. You don’t mind if I show you a letter?” he asked mysteriously. She shook her head. He took an ornamental case from his pocket, opened it, and produced a heavily scented letter. He unfolded the thick sheet of note-paper, and read:--