I come now to a point in my narrative when the trend of events takes a new turn, and when I shall have to relate happenings of infinitely greater importance than the circumstances under which Parker and Smudgy, the negro Black Sam, and the two Grants, met their death. These were but the "curtain-raisers" preceding the drama in which the man known to the readers of this history as "the Dumpling" took so remarkable a part. Up to this point my tale--I had to tell it as it happened--has been little more than a detective story. Now we shall soon come to a story of quite another sort. CHAPTER XXIV. I DISCOVER THE IDENTITY OF THE DUMPLING. The inquest over--for two mortal days I was kept hanging about Southend, to the mortuary of which the bodies had been taken--I returned to town, eager to see Kate, and to compel from her dear lips a second sweet admission that I was not without a place in her heart. Something there was in the look of the house--the drawn blinds of the reception rooms, the fact that, except for the hall and the basement, the place was in darkness--which turned me cold and sick with apprehension and with a sense of coming evil. "Good evening, Metcalfe," I said, when the door was opened by that worthy. "Are the ladies in?--Miss Carleton, or Miss Kate?" "No, sir," he said, looking at me queerly. "They have left town, but there's a letter--two letters--for you, sir. If you'll come in I'll get them." "Left town?" I said, blankly. Then, recovering myself--for I did not desire to enliven the _ennui_ of Metcalfe and his fellow-servants by providing them with matter for speculation and discussion concerning the relations which existed between their young mistress and myself--I added, unconcernedly: "Oh, yes--of course. I had forgotten it was to be so soon, and I have been out of town myself. Where are the letters, Metcalfe?" "On the library table, sir. Perhaps you'll walk in. Can I get you some coffee, sir?" "No, thank you. I'm just up from the country, and haven't dined. But I'll go into the library to read my letters. If any answer should happen to be wanted, I could write it there, and so catch an early post. I shan't want you any more, Metcalfe. Don't wait." The man withdrew, and I opened the first of my letters. It was from Kate. Good-bye, dear Max; good-bye for ever. Something horrible has happened, and you and I must never see each other again. So we have gone--my aunt and I. It was the only way. If you love me, do not try to find us. It will be quite useless. If you love me, keep your promise--the promise, I mean, that you refused to me. You will not refuse it to me now, I know--the first and last promise I shall ever ask from you. One thing more, only, I will ask you--not to promise, but to believe; and that is that the answer I gave to your last question, as we stood together by the window, was true.--KATE.