"Poor John--I ought to be glad that he is alive, and I am--really--only, oh! Stepan, I love Denzil so dearly. It is all too awfully complicated. What so greatly astonishes me about it is that John has not written deliriously, or as though he has lost his memory, and yet if we had carried out his instructions and wishes we should be married now, Denzil and I,--and he never alludes to the possibility of this! It is written as though no complications could enter into the case--" "It sounds strange--may I see the letter?" She got up and went over to the writing table and returned with a packet and the envelope which contained the card. It was not one which prisoners use as a rule; it had the picture of a German town on it and the postmark on the envelope was of a place in Holland. Verisschenzko read it carefully: "I have been too ill to write before--I was taken prisoner in the counter attack and was unconscious. I am sending this by the kindness of a nurse through Holland. Everyone must have believed that I was dead. I am longing for news of you, dearest. I shall soon be well. Do not worry. I am going to be moved and will write again with address. "All love,-- "JOHN." The writing was rather feeble as a very ill person's would naturally be, but the name "John" was firm and very legible. "You are certain that it is his writing?" "Yes"--and then she handed him another letter from the packet--John's last one to her. "You can see for yourself--it is the same hand." Stepan took both over to the lamp, and was bending to examine them when he gave a little cry: "Sapristi!"--and instead of looking at the writings he sniffed strongly at the card, and then again. Amaryllis watched him amazedly. "The same! By the Lord, it is the work of Ferdinand. No one could mistake his scent who had once smelt it. The muskrat, the scorpion! But he has betrayed himself." Amaryllis grew paler as she came close beside him. "Stepan, oh, tell me! What do you mean?" "I believe this to be a forgery--the scent is a clue to me. Smell it--there is a lingering sickly aroma round it. It came in an envelope, you see,--that would preserve it. It is an Eastern perfume, very heavy,--what do you say?" She wrinkled her delicate nose: "Yes, there is some scent from it. One perceives it at first and then it goes off. Oh, Stepan, please do not torture me. Can you be quite sure?" "I am absolutely certain that whether it is in John's writing or not, Ferdinand, or some one who uses his unique scent, has touched that card. Now we must investigate everything." He walked up and down the room in agitation for a few moments; talking rapidly to himself--half in Russian--Amaryllis caught bits. "Ferdinand--how to his advantage? None. What then? Harietta? Harietta--but why for her?" Then he sat down and stared into the fire, his yellow-green eyes blazing with intelligence, his clear brain balancing up things. But now he did not speak his thoughts aloud.