He was recalled to himself by her voice. “Well, sir,” she reminded him, “you have something to say to me? Have you forgotten your lines?” Caruth shook his head. “No,” he answered slowly; “I had only forgotten my cue. I was thinking in the fifth act, while we are yet still in the first. However, you have helped me out. My lines are these: ‘Your letter has turned up. Wilkins’s brother called on me to-day with a copy of it.’” If Caruth intended to startle the girl by his abrupt announcement, he undoubtedly succeeded. She grew so white that for a moment he feared she was about to faint. Then a sparkle came into her eyes. “His brother?” she repeated. “The one who wrote the letter?” “Oh, no, no! Another brother. One who has been living in the West for years. A typical Westerner.” “How did it get into his hands?” “I can only guess. Probably Wilkins really took your warning words to heart, for he scribbled a brief letter on an envelope, and mailed the whole, probably by the chute in the building. The postmark shows that the letter was collected about three A.M. that same morning. It went to Denver to the brother, whose name is Thomas. Thomas dropped everything and started east. He got here this morning and came to my rooms to see his brother. He had heard nothing of the fellow’s death.” “And he showed you the letter? You have read it?” The tones were quiet, but Caruth could see the suspense lurking in her eyes. “Yes, he showed it to me. That is, he showed me a copy of it--with certain words cut out. I have brought it with me. But before I show it to you, I must--forgive me--I must be convinced of your rights in the matter.” “My rights!” “Yes, your rights. It seems outrageous for me to question you; but--I must know.” “Know what?” A tang of metal grated in the woman’s words. “Know all there is to know! I have the right to ask! You came to my rooms seeking a letter. You warned Wilkins that the possession of the letter might be fatal to him. He did not heed you, and he was murdered within the hour, apparently to get the letter you wanted so much. To-day I learn that this letter contains information, not about a political conspiracy as I had supposed, but about money--money! I was ready to shield you--even when I thought you or your accomplices had been guilty of murder--as long as your acts were political. But to kill for money--to waylay a man and murder him for gold--that goes beyond me!” “And you believe I did that?” Caruth flushed and paled again. “No!” he stammered. “Not you. But your friends----” “My friends are no more guilty than myself. Two of them were awaiting me, and I thought at first that they had killed your man. But they did not. I give you my word that they did not. Neither of them touched him! He was killed by some one else.” “By whom? By whom?”