"Which you thought. It would, perhaps, be more correct to say that you accepted his statement without thinking. Mr. Fordham, it is not my habit to throw discredit upon coincidences; at the same time I do not accept them blindly, and I decline to accept this. In an inquiry such as this upon which I am engaged my mind is open not only to probabilities but to possibilities; everything humanly possible must be taken into account. Let one of the reins slip through your fingers, and you upset the coach. Maxwell says he found the street door open; you state that when you left the house you closed it behind you. I range myself on your side. The street door was shut." "Then to enter the house Maxwell must have had a key?" "Exactly. He had a key, and he and your half-brother were accomplices. From your experience of them, probable or possible?" "Probable. But this will not exculpate me." "I do not know where it will lead, but I intend to follow it up if I can. By the way, where was your wife buried?" "In the Highgate Cemetery," he answered, with a look of surprise, "where my father lies. We have a family grave there." "Your stepmother must have been buried in that grave." "Very likely--but these are idle questions." "Not so idle as they seem, perhaps. Another question, more to the point. Maxwell states that he found three articles belonging to you in the Rye Street house--your watch, your gold-digger's knife, and your matchbox. Did he return them to you?" "No. He retained them as evidence against me." "I shall be astonished if they are ever brought against you. My impression is that he will keep out of the way. I may not have time to see you again this week. If you have anything to communicate--if anything occurs to you that may assist me--write to my office." I proceeded immediately to John Fordham's lodgings, where he was known as John Fletcher, and had a chat with the landlady. She spoke in the highest terms of her lodger; he was polite and civil, "a perfect gentleman," and gave no trouble; but she knew "all along that there was something on his mind." He always paid in advance, and there was a fortnight of his last payment still to run. In his desk I found only one letter from Maxwell; the envelope had been destroyed. It was friendly, and contained nothing incriminating. There was a reference in it to "low spirits" from which "dear John" was suffering, and the writer, who signed himself "M.," could not understand why John Fordham should be so melancholy. "Cheer up, old fellow," said "M.," "I shall come and see you tomorrow, and shall try to put some life into you." I understood why the letter was so carefully worded; Maxwell was guarding himself against the chance of his correspondence falling into other hands. Before I left the house, with the letter in my pocket, I inquired of the landlady whether she had seen Maxwell and had spoken to him.