“I never knew that such things were possible,” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe--I can’t believe--that my step-father ever meant to use the letters in such a way.” At this point the consultant saw Mrs. Neobard open her eyes and look at him wistfully, as if to ask him to take no notice of her daughter’s tenderness for the scoundrel who had passed to his account. “Surely you can’t think,” the girl pursued, “that my mother knew anything about this? Mother!”--she turned to the shrinking woman--“do you hear? You must do everything you can to help Sir Frank Tarleton to stop this iniquity.” Now Sir Frank knew perfectly well that it could be stopped pretty easily by the simple step of Mrs. Neobard’s solicitors taking proceedings in her name for the recovery of the letters. The legal property in them, of course was vested in the writers, but until they claimed them the executrix was entitled to their possession; and if the Chancery Lane sharper refused to give them up or to disclose their whereabouts he was pretty sure to be struck off the Rolls and stood a good chance of being indicted for conspiracy. All this the adviser of the Home Office had known from the first, but he took care to keep the knowledge up his sleeve. For him the question of the letters was a secondary one and he was only using it as a means of opening the widow’s lips. Miss Neobard suddenly stopped pleading with her mother to say to the specialist, “I think I can guess who has those letters--Madame Bonnell!” This was another thing about which Tarleton had entertained no doubt since seeing the advertisement. But he received the suggestion with every sign of disbelief. “Madame Bonnell is the last person to whom I should think Dr. Weathered would have trusted them,” he answered. “She may have stolen them,” the girl persisted. “Perhaps he kept them at the Club and she has found them since his death.” “He kept nothing whatever at the Club except the disguise he wore at the Club dances. I have had the premises searched carefully by the police, and they have questioned the staff. The letters are not there now, and there is no receptacle in which they could have been stored.” Mrs. Neobard had been listening anxiously to this discussion. Now she spoke. “Who else do you think can have them?” “That is what I want you to tell me. And I think you can.” The widow shivered again. Her daughter looked at her with a dawning comprehension that something was wrong. “Mother, you must tell if you know.”