“Ah! his letters! May I see them?” “Oh, I couldn't! My son's letters to me? Oh, no!” She shook her head resolutely, but he insisted, pointing out in his kindest way that the matter could not rest where it was, that some motive must have lain behind that draught of morphia, and that the letters might furnish the explanation. All of which was strictly true. Mrs. Erskine looked at him tragically. “I cannot do it! I canna!” she whispered brokenly, but finally he persuaded her to draw out from under her cushion a leather pocket-book. “Don't—don't misjudge him,” she pleaded earnestly, looking away. “He was a good son and loved me, but it's not easy for a lad to put his love into words, is it?” Certainly Robert Erskine had made but little effort in that direction. The letters were only those of the current year, with the exception of his last Christmas letter. Each was the barest of prefaces to a demand for money to pay some pressing debt. In one he apparently half-shamefacedly had added that the devil only knew where all his own money went to. In another, evidently in answer to some suggestion of his mother about living with an object in view, was a caustic line as to the differing estimates put on objects by an old lady and a young man; as for himself, he added candidly, it was to “squeeze the most out of this rotten show.” As a light on his character the four were damning in their clearness, and in so far they gave the Chief Inspector a very good idea of the vicious circle in which Robert Erskine must have lived; but they mentioned no names and no facts. Not even an address was given. The mother was directed to send the sums asked for, and very big sums they totalled all together, to the Toronto main postoffice. There was never a date or heading, but the Toronto post-mark on the envelopes supplied some clue. Of coming to Europe there was no word. It looked much as though young Robert's journey might easily have been a flight from unpleasant consequences, for Pointer knew, none better, where such paths as these could lead. He handed back the letters without a word, except of thanks. Mrs. Erskine covered her face with her hands and said nothing for a moment. “You'll not—they don't do my poor lad justice—I shan't be called on to show them again?” “No, no, madame!” Pointer was thankful that he need not turn the knife in a mother's wound. “No, there will be no necessity for any mention of them. But his other letters, now——?” “I didn't keep them,” she spoke in a low, pained voice, “you see, I never dreamt that they might be all that I should ever have— I always thought he would let me make my home with him some day—living alone is hard when your son is so far away—but that was not to be.” “You have no other letters from him, then?” “None. I destroyed them each year. I make a practice of never keeping letters long. My health is none too certain.” “Did he ever refer to a John Carter in them?”