"Thank you," replied Fanks, imperturbably, "I will." And he did so slowly and carefully, taking note of the dates and arranging the letters in due order. Having finished, he tied the letters up again and handed them over to Roger. "Please deliver them to Miss Judith." "Oh, ho," said Roger, slipping the parcel into his pocket. "So the letters are no use to you?" "Not the letters that are there." "What, do you think some of the letters are missing?" "I'm certain of it." "Then who is the thief?" "Judas." "Oh!" Roger flung himself back in his chair with a sigh of relief, as if he had half expected to hear another name, and that a name similar in sound. "There are in that bundle," said Fanks, gravely, "letters written at Ironfields--so far so good. But they are only silly girlish letters!" "As Judith told you!" "Exactly, as Judith told me," responded Octavius, suavely, "but I want to see the letters written in London and in Ventnor." "Perhaps she never wrote any in those two places." "Humph! the chances are she did." "You are excessively mysterious," said Roger, sarcastically, "but the question can easily be settled. Ask Miss Marson herself." "I thought I heard Miss Varlins say she was ill!" "So she is, poor child," said Roger, soberly; "I blurted out the fact of Melstane's death too suddenly, and she fainted. Now she is very ill." "Oh! brain fever?" "I'm afraid so!" "In that case I can get nothing out of her," said Fanks, coolly; "it's a pity. By the way, do you know who I think knows a good deal about this case?" "Monsieur Judas." "You'll make a good detective some day," replied Fanks, approvingly. "Yes! I mean Monsieur Judas. He's a crafty wretch, that same Frenchman, and knows a good deal." "About Melstane and Miss Marson?" "Probably." "And Melstane's death?" "Possibly." "You don't suspect him?" asked Roger, breathlessly. "I don't suspect any one--at present, as I said before," replied Fanks, with a sudden movement of irritation. "Confound it, the more I go into this case the more mixed up it seems to get. It seems to me it all depends on those pills. The box went from Wosk's shop into the hands of Melstane, certainly--" "Yes, and it went from Melstane's hands into those of Spolger," said Axton, with sudden recollection. "What do you mean?" asked Fanks, eagerly. Whereupon, Roger, in a terrible state of excitement, told his friend all about Melstane's interview with Spolger--of the pill-box left behind, and of the sending of it back to Melstane. "And don't you see, Fanks," cried Axton, in great excitement, "Spolger is a bit of a chemist, so he could easily put in the two extra pills before he sent back the box. Melstane would never suspect, and so would come by his death. Oh, Spolger's the man who killed Melstane, I'm certain of it."