Joan Carew explained how she had risen, dressed, wrapped the chain in a pad of cotton-wool and enclosed it in an envelope. The envelope had not the stamp of the hotel upon it. It was a rather large envelope, one of a packet which she had bought in a crowded shop in Oxford Street on her way from Euston to the Semiramis. She had bought the envelopes of that particular size in order that when she sent her letter of introduction to the Director of the Opera at Covent Garden she might enclose with it a photograph. "And to whom did you send it?" asked Mr. Ricardo. "To Mrs. Blumenstein at the Semiramis. I printed the address carefully. Then I went out and posted it." "Where?" Hanaud inquired. "In the big letter-box of the Post Office at the corner of Trafalgar Square." Hanaud looked at the girl sharply. "You had your wits about you, I see," he said. "What if the envelope gets lost?" said Ricardo. Hanaud laughed grimly. "If one envelope is delivered at its address in London to-day, it will be that one," he said. "The news of the crime is published, you see," and he swung round to Joan. "Did you know that, Miss Carew?" "No," she answered in an awe-stricken voice. "Well, then, it is. Let us see what the special investigator has to say about it." And Hanaud, with a deliberation which Mr. Ricardo found quite excruciating, spread out the newspaper on the table in front of him. IV There was only one new fact in the couple of columns devoted to the mystery. Mrs. Blumenstein had died from chloroform poisoning. She was of a stout habit, and the thieves were not skilled in the administration of the anæsthetic. "It's murder none the less," said Hanaud, and he gazed straight at Joan, asking her by the direct summons of his eyes what she was going to do. "I must tell my story to the police," she replied painfully and slowly. But she did not hesitate; she was announcing a meditated plan. Hanaud neither agreed nor differed. His face was blank, and when he spoke there was no cordiality in his voice. "Well," he asked, "and what is it that you have to say to the police, miss? That you went into the room to steal, and that you were attacked by two strangers, dressed as apaches, and masked? That is all?" "Yes." "And how many men at the Semiramis ball were dressed as apaches and wore masks? Come! Make a guess. A hundred at the least?" "I should think so." "Then what will your confession do beyond--I quote your English idiom--putting you in the coach?" Mr. Ricardo now smiled with relief. Hanaud was taking a definite line. His knowledge of idiomatic English might be incomplete, but his heart was in the right place. The girl traced a vague pattern on the tablecloth with her fingers. "Yet I think I must tell the police," she repeated, looking up and dropping her eyes again. Mr. Ricardo noticed that her eyelashes were very long. For the first time Hanaud's face relaxed.