I could have laughed, if the whole thing had not been so tragic, for truly the way this silly, harmless little woman had allowed herself to be bullied and blackmailed by a pair of grasping females was beyond belief. “And this has been going on for over a year,” commented Lady Molly gravely. “Yes, but I never met Jane Turner again: it was always her mother who came.” “You knew her mother before that, I presume?” “Oh, no. I only knew Jane because she had been sewing-maid at the Castle some few years ago.” “I see,” said Lady Molly slowly. “What was the woman like whom you used to meet at the railway stations, and to whom you paid over Miss Turner’s annuity?” “Oh, I couldn’t tell you what she was like. I never saw her properly.” “Never saw her properly?” ejaculated Lady Molly, and it seemed to my well-trained ears as if there was a ring of exultation in my dear lady’s voice. “No,” replied the little Countess ruefully. “She always appointed a late hour of the evening, and those little stations on that line are very badly lighted. I had such difficulties in getting away from home without exciting comment, and used to beg her to let me meet her at a more convenient hour. But she always refused.” Lady Molly remained thoughtful for a while; then she asked abruptly: “Why don’t you prosecute Jane Turner for blackmail?” “Oh, I dare not--I dare not!” ejaculated the little Countess, in genuine terror. “My husband would never forgive me, and his female relations would do their best afterwards to widen the breach between us. It was because of the article in the London newspaper about the assault on Jane Turner--the talk of a clue and of startling developments--that I got terrified, and went to Scotland Yard. Oh, no! no! no! Promise me that my name won’t be dragged into this case. It would ruin me for ever!” She was sobbing now; her grief and fear were very pathetic to witness, and she moaned through her sobs: “Those wicked people know that I daren’t risk an exposure, and simply prey upon me like vampires because of that. The last time I saw the old woman I told her that I would confess everything to my husband--I couldn’t bear to go on like this. But she only laughed; she knew I should never dare.” “When was this?” asked Lady Molly. “About three weeks ago--just before Jane Turner was assaulted and robbed of the photographs.” “How do you know she was robbed of the photographs?” “She wrote and told me so,” replied the young Countess, who seemed strangely awed now by my dear lady’s earnest question. And from a dainty reticule she took a piece of paper, which bore traces of many bitter tears on its crumpled surface. This she handed to Lady Molly, who took it from her. It was a type-written letter, which bore no signature. Lady Molly perused it in silence first, then read its contents out aloud to me:-- “To H.S.H. the Countess of Hohengebirg.