She flung back the lid of the box, and there were bundles of letters, yellow with age, tied up with red tape. There was also a portrait--a faded old portrait of a girl's face. "Is this the Maltese wife?" asked Foster, taking it up, whereon Monteith sprang to his feet, and also looked to see if it resembled Carmela. Mrs. Taunton made a gesture of dissent. "It is Elsie Macgregor." The young man looked curiously at that face--a quiet, patient face, with love and truth shining through the pure eyes--the face of the woman that had ruined her life to save Leopold Verschoyle from himself. Foster laid it reverently down again amongst the old letters. "She was a good woman," he said, softly, and cynic as he was, he meant it. "But the proof--the proof!" said Monteith, impatiently. Mrs. Taunton rapidly turned over the bundles of letters, and drew from one packet a square slip of yellowish paper, which she handed to Monteith in silence. He took it eagerly, and read the contents--only three lines: "You have treated me shamefully, and I will never forgive you for it. We women of the South can revenge ourselves, and your life will pay the penalty of your falseness." There was no signature or date to this extraordinary document, and the two men wondered at it for a minute, then Foster looked up suddenly. "How do you know this is from the wife?" he asked, sharply. Mrs. Taunton pointed to the letters. "Of course, I have not read them," she said, coldly; "but you will see the writing on the envelopes corresponds with that in the letter." And so it did, in every particular; so Monteith and Foster both came to the conclusion that this wife must have killed Verschoyle, seeing that she had threatened him thus, and the crime was committed at Malta, where she lived--the proofs were so clear. "What are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Taunton, impatiently. "I have a detective in my employment, called Julian Roper," said Monteith, slowly; "and if you give me this paper, I will show it to him--then he must go out to Valletta--find out where Mrs. Verschoyle lives, and ascertain her movements on the night the crime was committed." "And he must also get some of her writing, to see if it corresponds with this," said Foster, pointing to the paper. "When will he start?" asked Mrs. Taunton, quickly. "To-morrow, by a P. and O. steamer," said Monteith; "and we will hear all particulars from him in a fortnight." "Very well," replied Mrs. Taunton, quietly; "you can take the paper, and hunt that woman down, for she and none other killed my poor brother--good-bye, gentlemen, I am going to lie down;" and without another word, she left the room, and retired to her bedroom, where her overtaxed nerves gave way, and she broke down utterly. "She is a plucky woman, that," said Foster, as they left the house, and drove away; "what do you think of it all?"