There were some sheets of writing-paper on the table and, with a word of explanation to Cynthia, he sat down and drew one towards him. Having written his note he looked about for an envelope, but could find none. Instinctively his hand went to the top drawer of the writing-table. It was unlocked and slid out easily and Fayre peered into it in search of the thing he wanted. He did not find it, but in the front of the drawer was lying an object he knew only too well, the “Red Dwarf” pen he had picked up near the gate of Leslie’s farm. The cap the tramp had given him was now fitted neatly over the nib. He picked the pen out of the drawer and turned it thoughtfully in his fingers. The mud stain still clung to the side, half obliterating a long smear of black ink. Here, after all, he reflected, lay the real clue to the puzzle. Leslie, he knew, had never used a stylo and Mrs. Draycott was the last person to carry a cheap pen of that type in her gold bag. Everything pointed to its having been dropped by the murderer. As a last resort, Grey had inserted an advertisement in most of the daily papers asking Page to come forward and it had appeared for the first time that morning. If Page were the owner of the pen, Fayre concluded, he was hardly likely to make himself known. With a sigh he replaced the “Red Dwarf” in the drawer. As he did so his sleeve caught in the edge of a large envelope that was lying near the back of the drawer and shifted it a few inches. Cynthia, who was standing near the window watching for Kean, did not hear the quick intake of his breath as he picked it up to replace it. For perhaps five minutes he sat motionless, the envelope in his hand, then he put it gently back in its place and closed the drawer. The letter to Lady Kean he slipped into his pocket, having apparently given up the idea of sending it. When Cynthia looked round he was immersed in a copy of the _Times_ he had found lying on Kean’s table. “Edward has just driven up in the car,” she said, and almost as she spoke the door opened and he came in. He looked distressingly worn and tired, but was more cheerful than Fayre had dared to hope. The doctors had given a good report of Sybil that morning, he told them, and they considered that she was responding to treatment better than she had done after the former attack. Fayre wondered whether the letter she had sent him had not been at least partly responsible for her illness and whether, now that the effort of writing it was over, she was not benefiting by the relief to her mind. “I was afraid we’d have to leave town without seeing you,” he said. “It was too much to expect you to give your mind to anything while Sybil was laid up.” Kean looked up sharply. “I should have carried on, in any case,” he answered quickly. “If it’s humanly possible to get Leslie off I’m going to do it.”