"I remember taking in the message, but I'm afraid I don't remember your face, sir," she answered nervously, evidently afraid that I was about to get her into trouble. "You see, we see so many people, and most of them only for a few moments. I recall rather clearly taking in that message, because it was typed, which most telegrams are not. And—and I thought it was handed in by a lady, and not by a gentleman. In fact I feel sure it was. Was it really you who gave it to me to send off?" "No, it was not," I answered quickly. "A lady? Can you remember what she was like?" "I can. She was, I think, really the most beautiful lady I have ever seen. She was quite tall, as tall as a man, and she had a lovely figure. It did seem to set off her beautiful clothes so well. Then her face was lovely too—long, dark eyebrows she had, if I remember rightly, and her eyes were large. Oh, and she had a lot of auburn hair—red you might almost call it—I don't know which it was really, but I never saw such hair." "Good!" I exclaimed. I turned to the policeman. "She has described beyond doubt a woman I know; a woman you will probably soon know something about too." "Indeed, sir?" he said, interested. "But about this signature," I went on, again addressing the operator. "How does this telegram you sent off come to be signed if the original was not signed?" "It was signed, sir. It must have been. Otherwise the name wouldn't have been telegraphed. Ah—I remember!" "Remember what?" "The signature was in pencil. Just after the telegram had been despatched, the lady came in again and asked if she might see the message again just for a moment—she was not sure if she had said something she had meant to say, she said. I got it and gave it to her, and a moment or two afterwards she gave it back to me, thanking me very much for having let her see it. She must have rubbed off the signature then. She could do it easy with a damp finger. Of course, I ought to have looked, but I didn't think to." "I think we have now solved the mystery—in part," I exclaimed triumphantly. "This is some abominable conspiracy, and I am going to get to the bottom of it. My name was evidently signed, telegraphed, and then purposely obliterated." After thanking the postmaster for his extreme courtesy and for the trouble he had taken, and impressing upon him that under no circumstances was the bright-eyed little operator to be censured, or allowed to get into any trouble, I returned with the policeman, who was now quite apologetic, to the house in Grafton Street. The door was locked. A constable standing by, however, told us that Osborne and Easterton had driven away together in a car—"his lordship's car, which his lordship had telephoned for," he said, and that "the two ladies had gone to the Ritz for tea"—he had heard them say, as they walked away, that they were going there.