“Miss Morales, you may place the most implicit confidence in me in anything you may say to me. Any communications you may make shall be held sacred. I have not as yet discussed the unfortunate affair with any one but yourself. It may rest entirely with you as to whether or not I do so hereafter.” “What do you wish me to do--what am I to say?” she asked, faintly. “Nothing here,” I replied. “Your present surroundings are by no means favorable to discussion of topics of vital importance, least of all to confidential communications. I shall therefore take the liberty of asking you to come to my office”--I looked at my watch, and saw that my office hours were long past due--“at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.” The girl suddenly dropped her hands from her face, straightened up in her seat, and, with the gleam of battle in her wonderful eyes, said, tensely, “Why should I feel called upon to make an appointment with you, an entire stranger, for the purpose of discussing a matter which, after all, does not in the least concern me. Mr. Peyton’s death, and your opinion of its cause are to me of no consequence whatever. Furthermore, your presence here is in the highest degree impertinent and uncalled for.” “Miss Morales,” I said, quietly. “There are several reasons why you should make and keep the appointment I have requested. In the first place, it is optional with me as to whether or not the sudden death of your friend, Mr. Peyton, shall be turned over to the coroner for investigation. It may prove to be my duty to do so.” “What do I care, whether the case is turned over to the coroner or not?” she replied, her jaws setting combatively. “Simply because there is no telling in what direction the investigation may lead, nor to whom suspicion may be directed,” I retorted. “Let it lead where it may, for aught I care,” she said, defiantly. “Miss Morales, I will be more to the point. A letter was found beneath Mr. Peyton’s pillow, which, should it fall into the coronor’s hands, might suggest all sorts of foolish ideas to the minds of the ignoramuses who compose the average coronor’s jury--minds to which sentiment is an unknown quantity. The letter was signed, ‘Julie,’ a signature that corresponds very accurately with one which is inscribed on the back of a photograph of a certain young lady that was found on the mantel in the dead man’s room.” The poor girl sank limply back upon the settee, the picture of helpless misery. I laid my hand gently upon her beautiful head, resting it there for a brief moment, and then passed quietly out. Being somewhat versed in matters psycho-logic, I had not the slightest doubt that the fair Julie would keep the rather one sided appointment made the afternoon before. I confess, however, that her promptness surprised me a little.