Just before the sailing of the S. S. _Avonmouth_ from Bristol this afternoon, the body of an elderly lady, who had booked a passage to Jamaica in the name of Mrs. Cotesham, was found in her cabin. It is feared that the deceased lady was the victim of foul play, as there were marks of strangulation upon her throat, and her property had apparently been rifled. LATER. Further extraordinary revelations concerning the murder on the _Avonmouth_ have just come to hand, from which it appears that the deceased was a man in woman's clothes. "What made him go on?" I asked. Mr. Thomson smiled. "A little information I whispered to him," he said, "concerning the movements of some of his cutthroat friends from Russia. They were hard on his track, as this paragraph proves." "And what about--the other one?" Rose asked, in a stifled, breathless voice--"the one I travelled up with?" "Andrea," Mr. Thomson replied. "I am afraid, Miss Mindel, that he is a very bad lot indeed. If I had not been sure that your protection was adequate, I should certainly have hesitated before I asked you to play Delilah." "I am still wondering," Rose murmured, "what has become of him." Mr. Thomson had been watching the progress of three men through the crowded restaurant. By a silent gesture he invited her attention to them. The foremost figure was the man whom we had known as Andrea Kinlosti, behind him the two unobtrusive-looking men who had passed through the restaurant a few minutes before. Kinlosti looked neither to the right nor to the left; his cheeks were ashen pale, his dark eyes more brilliant and sunken than ever. The two men who followed watched his every movement with catlike intensity. When they had passed into the lounge, they drew one on either side of him. "He is in luck," Mr. Thomson said grimly. "Scotland Yard has a pretty black record against him since his last visit to England, six or seven years ago, but if it had been the others--I don't think they would have been so kind to him as they were to his brother. And now that's the end of my story," he went on, in an altered tone. "Miss Mindel, I am assured that this young turkey is as tender as the chestnut stuffing. Lister, you ought to have an appetite, for I did you out of your lunch. Cotton, a glass of wine with you." I think that a certain callousness, born of our recent adventures, was finding its way into our natures, for each one of us responded cheerfully to our host's invitation. There was one--the great question--however, which I could not refrain from asking. "About those jewels, sir--where are they?" I asked. Mr. Thomson scratched his chin. "Young man," he replied, "don't you think you'd be better off without knowing where half a million pounds' worth of jewels are?" "That isn't what I meant," I persisted. "You seem to have recovered them from the original thieves. What are you going to do about it?" Mr. Thomson smiled.