“One does get that kind of letters,” she said, “and as a rule they are not worth while answering. Had I not known he was a friend of yours, I don’t think I should have taken the trouble--yes I would,” she nodded slowly. “Mr. Trasmere’s nephew has certain claims to refusal.” “Poor old Rex,” said Tab softly. “I had a wireless from him this morning saying that he was enjoying the voyage.” He took up his hat. “As regards the other matter, Miss Ardfern,” he said, “you must tell me in your own time, if you wish to tell me at all. But you must understand that there is a very big chance that the police will trace you, in which case I may be of assistance. As matters stand, I am just a sympathetic observer.” He held out his hand with a smile and she took it and held it in both of hers. “For twelve years I have been living in a nightmare,” she said, “a nightmare which my own vanity created. I think I am awake now, and when the police trace me--and I am so certain they will trace me that I have left the stage--” “Was that the reason?” he exclaimed in surprise. “That is one of the two reasons,” she said. “When they trace me, I think I shall be glad. There is still something of the old Eve in me,” she smiled a little sadly, “to make exposure a painful possibility.” One last question he asked as he stood at the door. “What was in the box? The box that looked like a brick and was hidden in the fireplace?” “Papers,” she replied. “I only know they were papers written in Chinese. I do not know what they were about yet.” “Had they--could they possibly supply a clue to the murderer?” She shook her head and he was satisfied. He smiled at her and with no other word, went out. All doubts that he had had as to his feeling toward her were now set at rest. He loved this slim girl with the madonna-like face, whose moods changed as swiftly as April light. He did not think of Rex, or the heartache which her message would bring, until later. There was no very satisfactory portrait of Wellington Brown in existence. On the ship which brought him from China, a fellow passenger had taken a snapshot of a group in which Mr. Brown’s face, slightly out of focus, loomed foggily. With this to work on, and with the assistance of Tab, something like a near-portrait was constructed and circulated by the police. Every newspaper carried the portrait, every amateur detective in the country was looking for the man with the beard, whose gloves had been found outside the death chamber of Jesse Trasmere. Less fortunate was the lot of Mr. Walter Felling, alias Walters. He had been in prison, and his portraits, full face and profile, were available for immediate distribution. He watched the hunt from one of those densely crowded burrows where humanity swelters and festers on the hot days and nights. In the top room of a crowded tenement, he grew more and more gaunt as the days went by, for the fear of death was in his heart.