“Oh, yes. He told me last night that everything would be finished this week. He seemed quite satisfied.” The Inspector paused to make a note. Then he thrust a hand into the side-pocket of his tunic and produced Hartley Parrish’s letter. “This,” he said, eyeing the girl as he handed her the letter, “may throw some light on the affair!” Open-eyed, a little surprised, she took the plain white envelope from his hand and gazed an instant without speaking, on the bold sprawling address— _“Miss Mary Trevert.”_ “Open it, please,” said the Inspector gently. The girl tore open the envelope. Humphries saw her eyes fill, watched the emotion grip her and shake her in her self-control so that she could not speak when, her reading done, she gave him back the letter. Without asking her permission, he took the sheet of fine, expensive paper with its neat engraved heading and postal directions, and read Hartley Parrish’s last message. My dear [it ran], I signed my will at Bardy’s office yesterday, and he sent it back to me to-day. Just this line to let you know you are properly provided for should anything happen to me. I wanted to fix things so that you and Lady Margaret would not have to worry any more. I just had to _write_. I guess you understand why. H. There was a long and impressive silence while the Inspector deliberately read the note. Then he looked interrogatively at the girl. “We were engaged, Inspector,” she said. “We were to have been married very soon.” A deep flush crept slowly over Mr. Humphries’s florid face and spread into the roots of his tawny fair hair. “But what does he mean by ‘having to write’?” he asked. The girl replied hastily, her eyes on the ground. “Mr. Parrish was under the impression that ... that ... without his money I should not have cared for him. That is what he means ...” “You knew he had provided for you in his will?” “He told me several times that he intended to leave me everything. You see, he has no relatives!” “I see!” said the Inspector in a reflective voice. “Had he any enemies, do you know? Anybody who would drive him to a thing like this?” The girl shook her head vehemently. “No!” The monosyllable came out emphatically. Again the Inspector darted one of his quick, shrewd glances at the girl. She met his scrutiny with her habitual serene and candid gaze. The Inspector dropped his eyes and scribbled in his book. “Was his health good?” “He smoked far too much,” the girl said, “and it made him rather nervy. But otherwise he never had a day’s illness in his life.” Humphries ran his eye over the notes he had made. “There is just one more question I should like to ask you, Miss Trevert,” he said, “rather a personal question.” Mary Trevert’s hands twisted the cambric handkerchief into a little ball and slowly unwound it again. But her face remained quite calm. “About your engagement to Mr. Parrish ... when did it take place?” “Some days ago. It has not yet been announced.”