"Well, it can't be helped," said Olive, despairingly. "There is nothing to be gained by probing the past. But in the present we may be able to do something. To return to those wrist-buttons: in the first place, Carson never wore them----" "One moment," interrupted Mallow. "You must be quite sure of that before we can accept it as evidence of any value. It is always possible he may have had them by him, yet not have worn them. Whether or no he gave them to Dr. Drabble is another matter; you had, perhaps, better write and get Mrs. Drabble to ask her husband." "That is exactly what I did. But she replied that it was more than she dared to do. You know she is frightened to death of him. On the contrary, she implored me not to tell him lest Margery should get into trouble." "The man can hardly blame her for following his own teaching," said Laurence, grimly. "He has been at some pains to teach her to look upon other people's belongings as her own; naturally the child thought she was doing no wrong. So Mrs. Drabble won't speak to her husband? Well, I must do so myself, then, when I get back to town." "Have you the doctor's address there?" "Yes. It so happens that he has been trying to enlist my sympathies towards his revolutionary projects. He gave me his town address and asked me to call." Mallow took out his pocket-book. "49, Poplar-street, Soho; that's where he lives. A veritable hotbed of foreign rascality, no doubt. Well, that disposes for the present of one more piece of evidence. What else have you?" "Two days ago," said Olive, "I received this from Angus" (producing a letter). "He said that he was going to London, possibly even abroad. He has evidently gone abroad, for this is written from Florence." "So I see," said Mallow, glancing over the letter. "Florence as an address is somewhat vague." "He fears I may follow him, I suppose. Pray read the letter, Mr. Mallow." Laurence did so. There were merely some half a dozen lines to the effect that the writer did not intend to return, that he gave his wife her full freedom, and apologizing for anything he might have done to distress her. "He is a bad lot," said Mallow, in disgust, "Still, I cannot see how this letter is going to help you, nor, for that matter, what doubt it casts upon his identity." "Can't you see," burst out Olive, "why he wrote that himself--and, moreover, he wrote it with his right hand. I have seen the writing of his left. It can be read only with great difficulty. This is perfectly plain and easily legible. Yet, when he was here, he always declared his right hand was much too painful to use in any way." "Yes, I admit there may be something in it," said Mallow; "but might not some one else have written it for him?" "Perhaps; that is, of course, just possible. But I doubt it. I don't believe his right hand was hurt at all. He merely feigned its uselessness for his own ends." "But Mrs. Purcell declared that it was useless."