“That she’ll be in gaol by this time to-morrow is pretty positive; I shouldn’t be surprised if Symonds was applying for a warrant at this moment. If you think that you will free her by merely going and saying, ‘I did it, it wasn’t she,’ you are under a delusion. She’ll not be freed like that; they’ll need chapter and verse. You’ll have to tell a plain tale plainly; how you planned the thing, how you did it, how you sought to hide your guilt by throwing the blame of it on her. “Your tale will want corroboration; the support of independent evidence. I could say a thing or two, with perfect truth, which would go some way towards hanging you. Your concealment of the fact that you were in the room would look ugly, if treated well, and there’s the girl who saw you flying from it as if the devil were behind you. There’s the tell-tale marks upon the towel, on the pyjamas; there are a dozen things, without invention. And with--oh, we could manufacture a good round tale which would bear the strictest investigation, and which, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, would set her free for ever. Shall we set about it now?” I was silent. “There’s some one knocking at my door.” Some one was beating a tattoo upon the panel. “So there is; and some one in a hurry, it would seem. Perhaps it’s Symonds. If so, you might make a clean breast of it at once. I’ll corroborate with what I know. Then she need never fear arrest at all.” CHAPTER XV. THE LETTER But it was not Symonds. It was a messenger-boy--an impertinent young rascal. “Mr. John Ferguson? I thought every one was out, I’ve been knocking for the last ten minutes.” “Have you indeed? I trust the delay has caused you no serious inconvenience. Yes, I am Mr. John Ferguson.” “No answer.” He thrust an envelope into my hand, and, turning on his heel, was about to march away. I caught him by the shoulder. “Pardon me--one second! From whom does this communication come?” “I say there’s no answer.” He wriggled in my grasp. “I hear you--still, if you could manage to wait for a moment, I think it might be worth your while. Let me beg of you to enter.” Drawing him into the room, I shut the door. He surveyed me with indignation. “My orders are that when there’s no answer I’m not to wait.” “Good boy! Always obey orders.” The address on the envelope was typewritten; as were the sentences on the sheet of paper it contained. “Because Edwin Lawrence is dead, don’t suppose that the £1880 are paid. You have not hit on a new way to pay old debts. A knife in the back is not a quittance. You are wrong if you suppose it is. Have the money ready; hard cash--notes and gold; all gold preferred. NO CHEQUE. Edwin Lawrence has left an heir; to whom all that he had belongs, your debt among the rest. Be prepared to pay when asked. If the request has to be made a second time it will come in a different form. “The Goddess.”