Tony took a small unsealed envelope out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it over. “She said it was important,” he added; “that’s why I insisted on coming in to-night.” Barrison read his note, and then looked up. “Do you know what this is?” he said. The boy flushed indignantly. “Good heavens, Jim!” he exclaimed. “You don’t suppose I read other people’s letters? She just gave it to me to bring, and I brought it, that’s all.” Barrison smiled at him, with a warm feeling round his heart. “That’s all right, Tony,” he said kindly, “and you’re all right, too! You’d better look at it.” He held it out. Tony shook his head. “If there’s anything in it you want to tell me, fire ahead!” he said stoutly. “I—I haven’t any particular reason for seeing it, you know.” Barrison understood him, and smiled again. “I’ll read it to you, then,” he said, and read: “MY DEAR MR. BARRISON: I have just heard, though scarcely with surprise, I admit, of Mr. Mortimer’s death. It has shocked me very much, I find, even though it was the sort of tragedy that was bound to come sooner or later. I cannot pretend complete indifference to it, nor yet indifference to the conviction of his murderer. I am going to assume that you really want any sort of help, from any source, in solving this mystery. Though you refused to help me once, I am ready to help you now in whatever way I can, and I believe that my help may be worth more than you are now prepared to see. I knew Alan Mortimer rather well; it is possible that I can throw light upon certain phases in his life of which you are still ignorant. I promise nothing, for I do not yet know how valuable my testimony may prove. But—will you lunch with me at one o’clock to-morrow—or, rather, to-day—at my hotel? And meanwhile, if you will forgive me for reiterating the suspicion I once suggested to you, you can hardly do better than look up Miss Kitty Legaye, and get her views on the murder. Far be it for me to suggest a course of action to an expert detective like yourself, but—if Miss Legaye left the theater early, she would hardly be likely to learn of the tragedy until she got the morning papers. Don’t you think that it would be interesting to forestall them, and yourself be the one to break the news to her? Just suppose that you found it was not precisely ‘news’ after all! “If I do not hear from you, I shall expect you for luncheon at one. Sincerely yours, “GRACE TEMPLETON.” Jim Barrison automatically registered the fact that the writing was not that of the threatening letters, and sat still staring at the sheet after he had read it aloud. His brain was in a whirl of excitement. The words which he had just read seemed, in the very utterance of them, to have taken on a vitality, a meaning, that they had not had in the first place.