“I see your point. You infer that whoever did write it killed Lawrence, because it discloses knowledge which could only be in possession of his murderer. There is something in the inference. But, if the thing’s so plain, isn’t it an act of rashness to have written you at all--rashness which is almost inconceivable?” “‘_De l’audace_’--you know the wise man’s aphorism. I don’t say the thing is plain. On the contrary, I believe it’s more obscure than you think. Granting that whoever wrote that letter killed Lawrence--and I fancy you’ll find that is the case--the question is who wrote it. It’s signed ‘The Goddess.’ I believe ‘The Goddess’ was the writer. Query, who’s ‘The Goddess’? There’s the puzzle.” “Are you intentionally speaking in cryptograms? May I ask what you mean?” “I’m not quite sure that I know myself. I don’t go so far as to say that there is anything supernatural about the business, but--it’s uncommonly queer.” “Supernatural! You had better make that suggestion to the police. The English law does not recognise the supernatural in crime.” “Possibly not. You say it was a man, Symonds thinks it was a woman; I believe both of you are wrong--that Lawrence was killed neither by a man nor a woman. Who or what is ‘The Goddess’? Find that out, you’ll have found the criminal!” His lips curled in an ironic smile. “I really wonder if you think that you can successfully play a game of bluff with me.” I laughed. The man was so full of verjuice that he could not resist an opportunity of squirting a drop or two in my direction. His intentions had not been over and above friendly before. Now that the shadow of a woman had come between us, I felt that he would stop at little which would help him hang me. That my innocence might be shown was a matter which would concern him not at all--so long as he had hung me first. While I hesitated what to answer, for, though, I hoped, at the proper time, to take him by the neck and drop him from the window, my desire was, in the mean time, to treat him with the utmost courtesy--some one came rushing into the room. It was Turner, the night-porter. He seemed to have been in the wars. He held his handkerchief to his nose, and his uniform was disarranged as if he had just emerged from a scrimmage. “There’s Mr. Philip Lawrence just gone down the service stairs.” We stared at him--not, at first, gathering what he meant. Our thoughts had been occupied with other themes, as, for instance, our love for one another. He, perceiving that we did not understand, went on, like a man in a rage--