Richardson muttered something inarticulate, and almost snatched it away. It was the envelope of the fatal letter which Mademoiselle Violet had written him to Queenstown. “Sit down, Mr. Richardson, if you are not in a hurry,” Wingrave continued calmly. “I was hoping that I might see you this morning. Can you spare me a few minutes?” Richardson subsided into his chair. His heart was thumping against his ribs. Wingrave’s voice sounded to him like a far-off thing. “The handwriting upon that envelope which I have just restored to you, Mr. Richardson, is well known to me,” Wingrave continued, gazing steadfastly at the young man whom he was addressing. “The envelope! The handwriting!” Richardson faltered. “I--it was from--” An instant’s pause. Wingrave raised his eyebrows. “Ah!” he said. “We need not mention the lady’s name. That she should be a correspondent of yours, however, helps me to understand better several matters which have somewhat puzzled me lately. No! Don’t go, my dear sir. We must really have this affair straightened out.” “What affair?” Richardson demanded, with a very weak attempt at bluster. “I don’t understand you--don’t understand you at all.” Wingrave leaned a little forward in his chair. His eyebrows were drawn close together; his gaze was entirely merciless. “You are not well this morning,” he remarked. “A little headache perhaps! Won’t you try one of these phenacetine lozenges--excellent things for a headache, I believe? Warranted, in fact, to cure all bodily ailments for ever! What! You don’t like the look of them?” The young man cowered back in his chair. He was gripping the sides tightly with both hands, and the pallor of a ghastly fear had spread over his face. “I--don’t know what you mean,” he faltered. “I haven’t a headache!” Wingrave looked thoughtfully at the box between his fingers. “If you took one of these, Mr. Richardson,” he said, “you would never have another, at any rate. Now, tell me, sir, how you came by them!” “I know nothing about--” the young man began. “Don’t lie to me, sir,” Wingrave said sharply. “I have been wondering what the ---- you meant by hanging around after me, giving the deck steward five shillings to put your chair next mine, and pretending to read, while all the time you were trying to overhear any scraps of conversation between my secretary and myself. I thought you were simply guilty of impertinent curiosity. This, however, rather alters the look of affairs.” “What does?” Richardson asked faintly. “That box ain’t mine.” “Perhaps not,” Wingrave answered, “but you found it in my state room and filled it up with its present contents. My servant saw you coming out, and immediately went in to see what you had stolen, and report you. He found nothing missing, but he found this box full of lozenges, which he knows quite well was half full before you went in. Now, what was your object, Mr. Richardson, in tampering with that box upon my shelf?”