"I suppose the case against him is not yet complete," remarked Rodwell, with a careless air. "A most unfortunate affair," he added. "He was a clerk in the office of a company in which I have some interest." "So I hear. But I really can't think it's true that he's been guilty of espionage," remarked the Admiralty official. "He was a great friend of Jerrold's, you remember." "Well, I fear, if the truth were told, there was a charge of a similar character against Jerrold." "What!" cried Trustram, starting forward in great surprise. "This is the first I've heard of it!" "Of course I can't say quite positively--only that is what's rumoured," Rodwell said. "But what kind of charge was there against Jerrold? I can't credit it. Why, he did so much to unearth spies, and was of the greatest assistance to the Intelligence Department. That I happen to know." "That is, I think, admitted," replied the man who led such a wonderful life of duplicity. "It seems, however, that information which came into the hands of the authorities was of such a grave character that a warrant was issued against him for war-treason, and--" "A warrant!" cried Trustram. "Surely that's not true!" "Quite true," was Rodwell's cold reply. "On the evening of his death he somehow learned the truth, and after you had left him that night he apparently committed suicide." Trustram was silent and thoughtful for some time. The story had astounded him. Yet, now he reflected, he recollected how, on that fatal night, while they had been dining together, the doctor had spoken rather gloomily upon the outlook, and had remarked that he believed that all his patriotic efforts had been misunderstood by the red-taped officialdom. In face of what his companion had just told him, it was now revealed that Jerome Jerrold, even while they had been dining together, had been contemplating putting an end to his life. He recollected that envelope in his possession, that envelope in which the man now dead had left something--some mysterious message, which was not to be read until one year after his death. What could it be? Was it, after all, a confession that he, the man so long unsuspected, had been guilty of war-treason! The doctor's rather strange attitude, and the fierce tirade he had uttered against the Intelligence Department for their lack of initiative and their old-fashioned methods, he had, at the time, put down to irritability consequent upon over-work and the strain of the war, but, in face of what he had now learnt, he was quite able to understand it. It was the key to the tragedy. No doubt that letter left for Jack Sainsbury contained some confession. Curious that suspicion had now also fallen upon Sainsbury, who had so often assisted him in watching night-signals over the hills in the southern counties, and in making inquiries regarding mysterious individuals suspected of espionage.