"We are dragging the pool. There is very deep water under the rock, but the chances are that the body has been washed out to sea. There is clearly no evidence against these people, except yours. The letters might, of course, have been forged, but you say you are certain that the writing is Mrs. Meredith's." Jack nodded. They were walking down the road towards the officers' waiting car, when Jack asked: "May I see that letter again?" The detective took it from his pocket book and Jack stopped and scanned it. "Yes, it is her writing," he said and then uttered an exclamation. "Do you see that?" He pointed eagerly to two little marks before the words "Dear friend." "Quotation marks," said the detective, puzzled. "Why did she write that?" "I've got it," said Jack. "The story! Mademoiselle Briggerland told me she was writing a story, and I remember she said she had writer's cramp. Suppose she dictated a portion of the story to Mrs. Meredith, and suppose in that story there occurred this letter: Lydia would have put the quotation marks mechanically." The detective took the letter from his hand. "It is possible," he said. "The writing is very even--it shows no sign of agitation, and of course the character's initials might be 'L.M.' It is an ingenious hypothesis, and not wholly improbable, but if this were a part of the story, there would be other sheets. Would you like me to search the house?" Jack shook his head. "She's much too clever to have them in the house," he said. "More likely she's put them in the fire." "What fire?" asked the detective dryly. "These houses have no fires, they're central heated--unless she went to the kitchen." "Which she wouldn't do," said Jack thoughtfully. "No, she'd burn them in the garden." The detective nodded, and they returned to the house. Jean, deep in conversation with her father, saw them reappear, and watched them as they walked slowly across the lawn toward the trees, their eyes fixed on the ground. "What are they looking for?" she asked with a frown. "I'll go and see," said Briggerland, but she caught his arm. "Do you think they'll tell you?" she asked sarcastically. She ran up to her own room and watched them from behind a curtain. Presently they passed out of sight to the other side of the house, and she went into Lydia's room and overlooked them from there. Suddenly she saw the detective stoop and pick up something from the ground, and her teeth set. "The burnt story," she said. "I never dreamt they'd look for that." It was only a scrap they found, but it was in Lydia's writing, and the pencil mark was clearly visible on the charred ashes. "'Laura Martin,'" read the detective. "'L.M.,' and there are the words 'tragic' and 'remorse'." From the remainder of the charred fragments they collected nothing of importance. Jean watched them disappear along the avenue, and went down to her father. "I had a fright," she said.