Nick devoted some time to soothing and calming Edith, and then sat down to his breakfast, determining that as soon as it was over he would begin an investigation. But before his breakfast was over he received another shock, though of a different kind. A note was brought him, evidently written that morning, from Mrs. Albert Constant, asking him to call upon her at once to consult with her on the new horror that had come into her life. He was astounded. He picked up the paper again to read the article telling of Mrs. Albert Constant’s murder. There was no mistake. He had read aright. It was distinctly stated that the murdered woman was the widow of the late Mr. Albert Constant, and even the poisoning of her dogs at the dog show was talked of. And yet he held in his hand, written that morning, a letter from the woman the paper said had been murdered in her carriage the night before. “It is incomprehensible, Edith,” he said. “There can be no doubt about this letter, and it speaks of a new horror.” “Perhaps,” said Edith, “she was not killed, but only wounded.” “The newspaper account particularly says that the ball entered the brain behind the ear,” said Nick. “Any one receiving such a wound as that could not write a letter within twelve hours, if she ever could. No; it is not to be accounted for on that ground. I fear this letter was written prior to her murder, for early delivery this morning, on the discovery of some new happening like that of the poisoning of her dogs.” He arose from the breakfast table, saying: “I shall go to her home at once and try to reconcile what now seems to be a mystery.” He went out of the house at once, and to the residence of Mrs. Constant, which was in the lower part of West End Avenue. Arriving, there were unmistakable evidences of a tragedy within the house. In front of it, on the pavement, were a number of people gazing with idle curiosity at the front of the house. Drawn up at the curbing was the undertaker’s wagon, sure testimony that some one within the house was dead. As Nick mounted the steps, the door opened and the coroner came forth. “Ah, Mr. Carter,” said that official, “you are expected. I have done all that I can do here at present. I presume you will begin an investigation. I hope that you will. “At present it is a dense mystery. I cannot give you a single point. All that we know is that the woman was killed somewhere between nine and half-past nine last night; that she was shot in the back of the head, and that death followed immediately. But who shot her we have no more idea after working all night than we had in the beginning.” “What are the circumstances?” asked Nick. “Very meager,” promptly responded the coroner. “The lady came from a dressmaker’s establishment, and before entering her carriage told her driver to drive directly home to this place.