Up the Long Gallery we went, past the grim row of armed knights so ghostly in the darkness, past the loudly-ticking old clock, past the deep window-seat wherein Sybil had so nearly betrayed her secret in the sunset hour, and on into my room. Once within we locked the door, drew the _portiere_ to shut out the sound of our voices, and I took from my various pockets all that we had secured from the dead man. It was a strange collection of papers, letters and various odds and ends, rendered gruesome by the stains of a man's life-blood upon them. They lay upon the table in the window and I scarce dared to touch them; stolen as they had been from that silent, staring corpse. I switched on the table-lamp, and we drew chairs eagerly forward, so excited that neither of us spoke. The first thing I took in my hand was the small circular medallion of gold with the thin chain which I had taken from the dead man's neck. About the size of a penny it was, smooth and polished on either side. I turned it over in wonder, and as I did so noticed that although so thin it was really a locket, one of those which is sometimes worn by ladies upon a long chain. With trembling fingers I inserted my thumb nail into the slit and prised it open. Upon one side a small ivory miniature of the Honourable Sybil smiled mockingly at us, and on the other was engraved an inscription. I put it down and took up a letter folded in half without an envelope, the paper of which was crumpled and blood-stained. I quickly scanned over what was written there, Eric looking over my shoulder meanwhile. What I learnt staggered me. It told us the awful truth. We turned and faced each other, looking into each other's eyes without uttering a word. The problem was, we saw, far more intricate and amazing than we had ever dreamed. Yes, there, spread before us, was the dead man's secret! CHAPTER FIVE. WHICH PUZZLES BOTH OF US. Holding our breath in our eagerness, we turned over the letters and hastily scanned them through, save where the writing was obliterated by those dark stains. They were a revelation to us both. They told a story which utterly amazed us. Within the flat circular locket were engraved the words: "From Sybil-- August 14th," but there was no year. It was a love token which the unknown had worn around his neck, a beautiful miniature signed by one of the most fashionable modern miniaturists. The letters were, for the most part, in a woman's large, rather sprawling hand, which I at once recognised as Sybil's, and signed either by her Christian name or by her initials, "S.B." The first we read was written on the notepaper of Hethe Hall, in Cumberland, a country house near Keswick, where she often visited. Undated, it ran:--