“There is another matter that the police may have enquired into,” said the Coroner. “I mention it now, because we naturally want to know all we can—the matter of circumstances. There were no money troubles, for instance?” “The police have also made enquiry amongst Mr. Guy Markenmore’s acquaintances on the Stock Exchange, and in financial circles, sir,” replied the barrister. “There seems no doubt that the deceased was in exceedingly prosperous circumstances—a very well-to-do man. All this can be put in evidence later; it seems probable, sir, that you will not be able to conclude this enquiry today, and——” “Just so—just so,” said the Coroner. “Let me hear the rest of the detective’s evidence.” Blick resumed his catalogue as if there had been no interruption. “A gold watch, chain, and pendant locket,” he continued. “Various small matters, such as a penknife, keys, gold pencil-case. And a letter case, comparatively new, and a pocket-book, evidently old, each containing letters.” “All these are in charge of the police, I suppose, Blick?” “They are all in charge of the Chief Constable, with the exception of the letter-case and the pocket-book which I have here and now produce.” Herewith Blick, diving into the inner breast pocket of his smart coat, brought out and held up a black morocco letter-case, and a faded green leather pocket-book. “Have you examined the contents of those things?” asked the Coroner. “Yes. The Chief Constable and I examined everything in them, carefully, on their discovery.” “What do they contain?” “This pocket-book contains seven letters, addressed to Sir Guy Markenmore, and all signed either Veronica or Nickie.” “Are they all in the same handwriting?” “They are, and the address on all is the same—Markenmore Vicarage.” “What are the dates?” “Only one bears any definite date—New Year’s Eve, 1904. The others are dated Monday, or Wednesday, or Friday, as the case may be. But each is in its envelope, and the postal marks are of the year I have just mentioned—1904, and the following year, 1905.” “Anything else in that pocket-book?” “Yes. Two locks of hair—evidently the same hair—folded in tissue paper, and a small lace-bordered handkerchief.” “Since finding these things, Blick, have you shown them to any one?” “Yes. After consulting with the Chief Constable, I showed them to Mrs. Tretheroe, at her house, yesterday. On seeing them, she said the seven letters were written by her to Mr. Guy Markenmore some years ago, that the two locks of hair were given by her to him, about the same time, and that the handkerchief was certainly hers—she fancied that he must have stolen it from her at some time or other.” “Now the letter-case. What did you find in that?”