My reason for asking was, that the chain was a neck one, not an albert, and, of course, had not been identified by the widow of Anderson. “No, I had the chain; I had taken it in payment of an account; but he wanted me to buy a chain, too, now that I remember.” “What kind of a chain? Did you see it?” “No; I said I did not need it; but I would look at the watch. He wanted a pound for the chain, and eight for the watch. I got it for £5, 10s., and then he went on the spree for a fortnight.” “A whole fortnight? Surely some one will be able to recall that,” I quickly interposed, half inclined to believe that Burge was not at least the greater liar of the two. “His daughter will surely remember it?” “I don’t know about that,” groaned Burge, in despairing tones. “That man takes so many sprees that it’s difficult to mind ane frae anither.” I resolved to try the daughter, nevertheless, and after getting from Burge, as near as he could remember, the date of the bargain, I left him and began to ponder how I could best get an unvarnished tale from this prospective witness. While I pondered, a new link in this most mysterious case was thrown into my hands. We had been particularly careful after the arrest of Burge to keep the affair secret, but in spite of the precaution, an account of the arrest, altogether garbled and erroneous, appeared in the next day’s papers. From this account it appeared that we were confident of Burge’s guilt, and were only troubled because we could not discover his accomplices in the crime, and on that account “were not disposed to be communicative,” as the penny-a-liner grandly expressed himself. The immediate result of this stupid paragraph, which seemed to book Burge for the gallows beyond redemption, was a letter from the West, bearing neither name nor address, it is true, but still written with such decision and vigour that I could not but give it some weight in my feeble gropings at the truth. This letter was placed in my hands, though not addressed to me particularly, just as I was wondering how to best question Chisholm’s daughter about her father’s big spree. The letter was short, and well-written and spelled, and began by saying that Burge, whom we had in custody on suspicion of being concerned in the robbery and murder of Anderson, was perfectly innocent; that the whole of the facts were known to the writer, whose lips were sealed as to who the criminal really was, and who only wrote that he might save an innocent man from a shameful death. The post-mark on the letter was that of a considerable town on the Clyde, or my thoughts would inevitably have reverted to Chisholm as the author or prompter. With the suspicion of this man had come at last an idea that he was in some way mixed up in the crime; yet he did not look either strong enough or courageous enough to be the murderer. Quite uncertain how to act, I left the Office, and wandered down in the direction of Chisholm’s home. It was quite dark, I remember,