Miriam looked about the library. There was no likelihood of their conversation being interrupted. "Dmitri Paltoff, Grand Maitre de la Cour, married my aunt," she said simply. "He was the last of his race, and when he was killed, the right to use that crest died with him. Its use on these envelopes was consequently a shock, and aroused my keenest interest at once, for"--she hesitated and spoke more slowly--"this black crest has a peculiar indentation and varies in no particular from the seal on my uncle's watch fob, which I saw snatched from his dying grasp by a Bolshevik in Vladivostok." Trenholm was regarding her with absorbed interest. "So that was it," he murmured, then raised his voice slightly. "Do you, by chance, know the Bolshevik who took the seal?" "Yes. It was my uncle's secretary, Boris Zybinn." Miriam leaned forward in her earnestness. "Just before I left Abbott's Lodge, I accidentally overheard Doctor Nash tell his wife that he had a telegram from Canada stating that Boris had died suddenly." Trenholm stared at her a moment. Rising with some abruptness, he went over to the wall, touched a concealed spring and one of the wooden panels slid aside and revealed the door of a small safe. When he came back and resumed his old seat, he carried a package of letters. "I watched you when you glanced over these letters," he confessed, "in the hall at Abbott's Lodge. And I have read them a dozen times trying to find out what there was about them which claimed such interest on your part." "I was looking for the black crest," she admitted. "You see the envelopes are identical with this burnt one," holding it up again. "I did not open any of the letters. Who wrote them?" "They are signed by Boris Zybinn," Trenholm opened several and laid them in her lap. "Do you recognize the handwriting?" She shook her head. "No. Boris was clever; he might easily have learned to disguise his writing. He was an excellent linguist, as most Russians are. What was he doing in Canada?" "Gentleman farming," answered Trenholm. "He had a place outside of Toronto and adjoining Doctor Nash's country estate. It was while visiting Nash that Paul Abbott and he became acquainted." "And these letters, what are they about?" questioned Miriam eagerly. "Farming," briefly. "And nothing else. Paul wished to model his place here after Zybinn's, especially his fruit orchard. I suppose that he kept them, for reference," and Trenholm tossed the remaining letters on his desk table which stood almost at Miriam's elbow. Miriam drew back in bitter disappointment. "And that is all," she exclaimed. "I have indeed found a mare's nest."