“I will not tell you who I am,” the letter began, “or you may not believe me; nevertheless, I speak the truth. I am the only person, except Lady Onslow, who can unravel the mystery of Count de Mürger’s death. From her lips you will never hear it; will you hear it from mine? “She is innocent of his death; I can convince you of that. She is screening another. Do you not want to know his name? I was in the corridor on the night when the murder took place; I saw and heard all that occurred. “If you want to clear your wife’s name, come at four o’clock this afternoon to No. 10 Pearson’s Row, Mersey Street, then I will tell you all. “ONE WHO KNOWS THE TRUTH.” The paper dropped from Jacynth’s hands. “If Mme. de Vigny were living I should say that she wrote this letter,” he remarked. “But how,” he added, rather to himself than to Frank, “how could she know?” Onslow looked up. His face was haggard, and there was a wild light in his eyes. “If she lives,” he said brokenly, “she shall pay for all that she has done----” “There is no likelihood that she has been saved,” Jacynth broke in. “I don’t think a single woman was rescued. No, Frank, this is a plant; and of course you will take no notice of it.” “No notice of it! But do you think that I would leave a stone unturned where Fenella’s honor is in question?” “For Heaven’s sake, don’t go,” cried Jacynth hotly. “There can be no possible good in it. What can there be for you to hear, unless you doubt your wife’s story?” His brow became dark and menacing as he spoke, but he was more anxious than angry. He and Fenella knew the truth, and he was bound by her wishes to keep it secret from Lord Francis; was it possible that anyone else should know? Surely, he said to himself, no other soul on earth now living had an inkling of the truth. But at all hazards he would try to prevent Onslow from keeping so suspicious and so unworthy a tryst. Frank Onslow, however, had made up his mind, and did not respond to any of Jacynth’s somewhat ineffective arguments. And when the clock struck three, he took up his hat and went out without saying whither he was bound. But Jacynth was only too certain that he had gone to the place mentioned in the letter. While he still stood hesitating whether to follow and force his company on him whether he would or no, there was a sound outside the door which made him start--the rustle of a woman’s dress, the well-known intonation of a woman’s voice. “My Ronny; is he here? And Frank--Frank?” Fenella had arrived. She came in, radiant with hope and joy, holding out her hands to Jacynth, who came slowly forward and clasped them in his own. “My Ronny,” she repeated. “Ah, how happy you have made me. I shall have both Ronny and Frank again. Take me to them at once; I cannot bear another instant of delay.” CHAPTER XXII. BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.