“Exactly. He was obliging enough to send me a copy.” “You—you know,” said Edward. Then he searched his pockets, and ultimately produced a folded letter. “You’ve had a letter like this? He’s told you? You know?” “That he’s played us the dirtiest trick on record? Yes, thanks, Edward, I’ve been enjoying the knowledge for the best part of an hour.” Edward shook his head. “Of course he was mad,” he said. “I have often wondered if he was quite responsible. He used to say such extraordinary things. If you remember, I asked you about it once, and you laughed at me. But now, of course, there is no doubt about it. His brain had become affected.” David’s lip twitched a little. “Mad? Oh, no, you needn’t flatter yourself, he wasn’t mad. I only hope my wits may last as well. He wasn’t mad, but he’s made the biggest fools of the lot of us—the biggest fools. Oh, Lord!—how he’d have laughed. He set the stage, and called the cast, and who so ready as we? First Murderer—Edward Mottisfont; Chief Mourner—Mary, his wife; and Tom Fool, beyond all other Tom Fools, David Blake, M.D. My Lord, he never said a truer word than when he wrote me down a damn fool!” David ended on a note of concentrated bitterness, and Edward stared at him. “I would much rather believe he was out of his mind,” he said uncomfortably. “And he is dead—after all, he’s dead.” “Yes,” said David grimly, “he’s dead.” “And thanks to you,” continued Edward, “there has been no scandal—or publicity. It would really have been dreadful if it had all come out. Most—most unpleasant. I know you didn’t wish me to say anything.” Edward began to rumple his hair wildly. “Mary told me, and of course I know it’s beastly to be thanked, and all that, but I can’t help saying that—in fact—I _am_ awfully grateful. And I’m awfully thankful that the matter has been cleared up so satisfactorily. If we hadn’t got this letter, well—I don’t like to say such a thing—but any one of us might have come to suspect the other. It doesn’t sound quite right to say it,” pursued Edward apologetically, “but it might have happened. You might have suspected me—oh, I don’t mean really—I am only supposing, you know—or I might have suspected you. And now it’s all cleared up, and no harm done, and as to my poor old uncle, he was mad. People who commit suicide are always mad. Every one knows that.” “Oh, have it your own way,” said David Blake. “He was mad, and now everything is comfortably arranged, and we can all settle down with nothing on our minds, and live happily ever after.” There was a savage sarcasm in his voice, which he did not trouble to conceal. “And now, look here,” he went on with a sudden change of manner. He straightened himself and looked squarely at Edward Mottisfont. “Those letters have got to be kept.” “Now I should have thought—” began Edward, but David broke in almost violently.