What followed on their departure is related by Fordham up to the moment of his own departure, when he fled from the house, leaving the dead body of Louis as its only occupant. Possibly he was watched and seen by his enemies, who re-entered the house after he was gone. They feel in Louis' pocket for his watch. "He has stolen it," they say. They look round for Louis' overcoat. "He has run off with it," they say. And then their eyes fall upon Fordham's blood-stained knife, which he foolishly left behind him. I can imagine their fiendish glee at these discoveries. "He has convicted himself," they say. But there is still a possible danger. Louis might have been seen in their company. If his features were mutilated so that it would be difficult to establish his identity, it would afford them an additional element of safety. The heavy oak table is dashed upon his face, and their work is complete. Once more the house of death is left in possession of its ghastly occupant. While I was following out these conjectures (for of course they were nothing more, and it will be seen in time whether they were correct) I received a report from the Liverpool expert to whom I had entrusted the two letters. It confirmed my suspicions, and furnished me with another link to the chain I was weaving. Although an attempt had been made to disguise the writing of the letter sent by "Mr. Lambert" to the house agent, the expert stated that both letters were written by the same hand. Scoundrel as Maxwell was, he would have been more careful had he imagined that the plot to fleece Louis would have ended so tragically. Now, of what legal value was all this evidence? A skillful lawyer might do something with it, but I doubted whether, unsupported and uncorroborated, it would establish John Fordham's innocence. In this view Fordham himself concurred; indeed, it was he who first laid emphasis upon it. I have seldom seen a man more agitated when he learned from me that there was no guilt of blood upon his soul. For several minutes he could not speak. He sat with his face buried in his hands, and when he raised his head the tears were still running down his cheeks. "I can bear the worst now," he said; and I knew from the remarks he made, that he was more grateful for Ellen's sake than for his own. I shall call her Ellen; surely I have the right, working as I was for her and for the man who had, in a sort of way, supplanted me. Had she seen me first--but of what use is it to speculate upon what might have been? As I have said, it was Fordham who laid stress upon the evidence against himself, evidence of his own supplying. His silence, his long concealment in London under an assumed name, the incriminating articles in his possession, which he had given up to the police, were strong points against him. "If my innocence is not clearly proved," he said, "I shall not care to be released."