That was what the envelope contained--an anonymous letter. “Who sent this?” “I don’t know. I haven’t read it.” “Possibly not; and yet you might know who was the sender.” “I don’t see how. I’d just been on an errand right over to Finchley. As soon as I came in that was given me. All I was told was that there was no answer.” The messenger spoke in a tone of resentment, as if suffering from a grievance. He was a small youth, with crisp black hair and sharp black eyes; combativeness writ large all over him. “You didn’t see who brought this to the office?” “I did not.” “Where do you come from?” “Victoria.” “What’s your name?” “George Smith. Though I don’t see what that’s got to do with you.” “Then that only shows that your range of vision’s limited. Because, Mr. George Smith, although there’s no answer to this little communication, you’re likely to hear of it again. Good-day.” The young gentleman withdrew with something like a sniff of scorn. I read the letter through again. As Hume stood watching me, his curiosity got the upper hand. “What is it?” “I was wondering if I should tell you. I don’t see why not.” I handed him the sheet of paper. He scanned it with eager eyes. “What do you make of it?” “It is for me, rather, to put that question to you.” “I’ll tell you one thing I make of it--that the typewriter, from the anonymous letter-writer’s point of view, is an excellent invention. In the case of a written letter, one can occasionally guess what kind of person it is from whom it comes; but, when it’s typewritten, the Lord alone can tell.” “‘The Goddess.’ Does the signature convey no meaning to your mind? Think.” “I’m thinking. The Goddess? I certainly don’t know any one who’s entitled to write herself down like that. Let me look at the thing again.” He returned me the sheet of paper. “This seems to suggest that some one else is disposed to take a hand in the game--some person at present unknown.” “But who knows that you owed Lawrence £1880? And--who knows how much besides?” “Just so. I wonder!” Hume eyed me as if he were endeavouring to decipher, on my face, the key to a riddle. “If some one applies to you for the money what shall you do?” “Hang him, or her, straight off. That is, I should hand the gentleman, or lady, over to Symonds, with that end in view. Don’t you see what such an application would imply? Lawrence was murdered within an hour or two of our playing that game of cards. How comes any one to know what was the amount he claimed to have won? No one saw him between the finish of the game and his death, except the man who murdered him.” “Miss Moore saw him--and you.” “Are you suggesting that Miss Moore wrote this letter--or I?”