"My dear Uncle and Sister," it ran. "I am in a position of some difficulty, but am quite safe personally.--Ever yours, JACK." Mr. Winter was the first to recover his equanimity. He could not control the note of triumph in his voice. "What do you think of it now, Mr. Brett?" The barrister ignored him, save for a glance which seemed to express philosophical doubt as to whether Mr. Winter's head contained brains or sawdust. "You are quite positive that both letter and envelope are in your brother's handwriting?" he said. "Absolutely positive." "There can be no doubt about it," chimed in Fairholme, to whom, in response to a gesture, Brett had passed the damning document. "Then this letter simplifies matters considerably," said Brett. Miss Talbot looked at him unflinchingly as she uttered the next question: "Do you mean that it serves to clear my brother from any suspicion?" "Most certainly." "I thank you for your words from the bottom of my heart. Somehow, I knew you would say that. Will you please come and help to explain matters to my uncle? Harry, you will come too, will you not?" The sweet gentle voice, with its sad mingling of hope and despair, sounded so pathetic that the impetuous peer had some difficulty in restraining a wild impulse to clasp her to his heart then and there. Even Mr. Winter was moved not to proclaim his disbelief. "I will see you in the morning, sir," he muttered. Brett nodded, and the detective went out, saying to himself as he reached the street-- "Nerve! Of course he has nerve. It's in the family. Just look at that girl! Still, it did require some grit to sign his name in the hotel register and then calmly sit down to write a letter telling his people not to worry about him. I've known a few rum cases in my time, but this one----" The remainder of Mr. Winter's soliloquy was lost in the spasmodic excitement of boarding a passing omnibus, for this latest item of news must be conveyed to the Yard with all speed. CHAPTER VI A JOURNEY TO PARIS The sight of Talbot's letter seemed to fire Brett's imagination. He radiated electric energy. Both Lord Fairholme and Miss Talbot felt that in his presence all doubts vanished. They realized, without knowing why, that this man of power, this human dynamo, would quickly dispel the clouds which now rendered the outlook so forbidding. For the moment, heedless of their presence, he began to pace the room in the strenuous concentration of his thoughts. Once he halted in front of the small bust of Edgar Allan Poe, whose pedestal still imprisoned the two cuttings of a newspaper which formed the barrister's first links with the tragedy. His ideas suddenly reverted to the paragraph describing the efforts of the Porte to obtain from the French Government the extradition of a fugitive relative of the Sultan. At that instant, too, a tiny clock on the mantelpiece chimed forth the hour of eight. "That settles it," said Brett aloud. "Smith," he vociferated.