Roger exploded suddenly. “Well, say what you like, Alec,” he burst out, “but the thing is dashed queer! You can’t get away from it. After all, our inquiries haven’t resulted in nothing, have they? We did establish the fact that Stanworth was a blackmailer. I forgot to tell you that, by the way. We were perfectly right; he had been blackmailing Mrs. Plant, the swine, and jolly badly, too. Incidentally, she hadn’t the least idea that his death might be anything else than suicide, and Jefferson didn’t come into the library while she was there; so I was wrong in that particular detail. I’m satisfied she was telling the truth, too. But as for the rest—well, I’m dashed if I know what to think! The more I consider it, the more difficult I find it to believe that it was suicide, after all, and that all those other facts could have been nothing but mere coincidences. It isn’t reasonable.” “Yes, that’s all very well,” Alec said sagely. “But when a fellow actually goes out of his way to write a letter saying that——” “By Jove, Alec!” Roger interrupted excitedly. “You’ve given me an idea. _Did_ he write it?” “What do you mean?” “Why, mightn’t it have been typed? I haven’t seen the thing yet, you know, and when she mentioned a letter it never occurred to me that it might not be a hand-written one. If it was typed, then there’s still a chance.” He walked rapidly towards the door. “Where are you going to now?” Alec asked in surprise. “To see if I can get a look at this blessed letter,” Roger said, turning the handle. “Mrs. Plant’s room is down this passage, isn’t it?” With a quick glance up and down the passage, Roger hurried along to Mrs. Plant’s bedroom and tapped on the door. “Come in,” said a voice inside. “It’s me, Mrs. Plant,” he replied softly. “Mr. Sheringham. Can I speak to you a minute?” There came the sound of rapid footsteps crossing the floor and Mrs. Plant’s head appeared at the door. “Yes?” she asked, not without a certain apprehension. “What is it, Mr. Sheringham?” “You remember that letter you mentioned this morning? From Mr. Stanworth, I mean. Have you still got it, by any chance, or have you destroyed it?” He held his breath for her reply. “Oh, no. Of course I destroyed it at once. Why?” “Oh, I just wanted to test an idea. Let me see.” He thought rapidly. “It was pushed under your door or something, I suppose?” “Oh, no. It came by post.” “Did it?” said Roger eagerly. “You didn’t notice the postmark, did you?” “As a matter of fact I did. It seemed so funny that he should have taken the trouble to post it. It was posted from the village by the eight-thirty post that morning.” “The village, was it? Oh! And was it typewritten?” “Yes.” Roger held his breath again. “Was the signature written or typewritten?” Mrs. Plant considered. “It was typewritten, as far as I remember.” “Are you sure of that?” Roger asked eagerly. “Ye-es, I think so. Oh, yes; I remember now. The whole thing was typewritten, signature and all.”