I was now perfectly satisfied that Merrick's idea was correct. In order to confuse and throw me off the scent Felix had followed me to Paris, and appeared _in propria persona_. But for the doctor's suggestion of the shipping list I should not have been able to prove this, but now I held incontrovertible evidence in my hands to prove that Felix was trading on the marvelous resemblance between his brother and himself. Francis had arrived in England on the 6th of June, he had met me at the Fen Inn on the 10th, and had there been foully done to death by his brother through a third party. But I was now on the trail and hoped to run to earth both the unnatural brother and his vile tool. I felt like the hero of some wild romance. On returning to my rooms in Duke Street I wrote off at once to Merrick, telling him of my success in proving the identity of Francis with the man who had been slain at the lone inn. It now remained for me to go down to Marshminster and there make inquiries as to the movements of Felix on the night in question. I felt confident that I could pursue such a search without hindrance, as he would be quite satisfied that I would now rest after the Paris episode. No man in his senses would search for a dead man when that man had been conclusively proved to be alive. So Felix doubtless thought, and rejoiced in his cleverness in thus putting an end to my inquiries. But mark how ironical is Fate. Felix advised me to consult a doctor about my hallucination, as he chose to call it. I took that advice and saw Merrick. Merrick had nullified all his plans by solving the riddle with which Felix was trying to baffle me. It was hard on Felix to thus be the means of pointing the way to his own destruction. But, then, Fate is so ironical. That afternoon I received answers to my telegrams. The first, from Paris, stated that Mr. Felix Briarfield had started for Italy; the second, from Marshminster, informed me that Francis Briarfield was staying at Bellin Hall. "No," said I, on reading these telegrams, "Felix Briarfield did not leave Paris for Italy, but for Marshminster, and Francis Briarfield, poor soul, is not at Bellin Hall, but lying in the Essex marshes." That night at five o'clock I left for Marshminster. CHAPTER VIII. A CLEW TO THE MYSTERY. The drama of "The Prodigal Son" was enacted over again when I returned to Marshminster. My aunts had greatly resented my sudden departure to Paris, and announced that this time intended to keep me them for some weeks. I had no objection to this arrangement, as I anticipated a long and laborious task in ferreting out evidence against Felix. The first thing to be done was to learn all that had taken place in my absence, and the information was ably supplied by Aunt Jane, seconded by her sister. I inquired about Briarfield and his fiancée. "Bellin Hall is to be shut up next week," said Aunt Jane; "the Bellins are going to town, and with them Mr. Briarfield.