"I don't think so, for the doctor was very careful to reassure her, and I had not even mentioned that we were to go abroad. No, it was something else, I'm sure." He paused. I wondered if anything I had said during our short walk had upset her. "I suggested going to a roof garden," continued Atkins, "and she acquiesced enthusiastically, and after that was over she insisted on a supper at Rector's. It was pretty late when we got home, and we both went immediately to bed. Now, I assure you that ever since she fainted on Wednesday I have been most affectionate towards her. I had determined to bury my suspicions, and my anxiety for her health helped me to do so. She responded very tenderly to my caresses, but I could see that she was still as depressed as before, although she tried her best to hide it from me. I tell you all this so that you may know that nothing occurred yesterday between us that could have caused her to leave me, and yet that is what she has done." He buried his head in his arms. I laid my hand on his shoulder. "Tell me the rest, old man." "The rest?--I woke up a short time ago and was surprised to find my wife had already left the room. Wondering what could be the matter (for she is usually a very late riser), I got up also. On the table beside my bed lay a letter addressed to me in her handwriting. I tore it open. Here it is," and he handed me a small pink note redolent of the peculiar scent which I had noticed his wife affected. This is what I read: MY DARLING HUSBAND: I must leave you. It is best for both. Don't think I'm going because I don't love you. It isn't that. I love you more than ever. It breaks my heart to go. Oh, my darling, darling! We have been happy, haven't we? And now it is all over. Don't look for me, I beg you. I must hide. Don't tell any one, even the servants, that I have gone, for two days. Oh, do oblige me in this. I have taken all the money I could find, $46.00, and some of my jewelry; so I shall not be destitute. Forgive me, and forget me. Your loving, heart-broken wife, LULU. After reading the note to the end, I stared at him in speechless astonishment. "What do you think of that?" he asked. "Well, really, of all mysterious, incomprehensible----" "Exactly," he interrupted, impatiently, "but what am I to do now? It is, of course, nonsense her telling me not to look for her. I _will_ look for her and find her, too. But how shall I go about it? O my God, to think of that little girl sick, unhappy, alone; she will die--" he cried, starting up. "Atkins," I said, after a moment's reflection, "I think the best thing for you to do is to lay this case before Mr. Merritt." "What, the man who was mixed up in the murder? Never!"