Surely, as I, a prosaic man-of-the-world, sat in that narrow cabin as we steamed up the Mediterranean towards Gibraltar, I had never dreamed that in his old kit-bag, smothered as it was with faded hotel labels, there reposed a fortune in banknotes. He had been perfectly frank on one point. He was a man without a single friend. And now I knew that he had an enemy--and that his name was Harford. Presently I bent to the dead man's bag--and examining it thoroughly, discovered that one letter had remained unburned--a letter which, by the London postmark upon it, had been written two years ago. It was addressed in a fine, angular, woman's hand to "Arnold Edgcumbe, Esquire, Post Office, Kingswear, South Devon." The name caused me to ponder. Had not he admitted that Melvill Arnold was not his real name? Was it not to be supposed that his actual name was Edgcumbe? The letter was, to say the least, a curious communication. It bore no address, but on the half-sheet of paper was written, in the same feminine hand, the words: "You, no doubt, saw the newspapers of 6th September, and the sentence of the Court upon the person they know as Lancaster. Rest assured that her betrayal will not go unrevenged by-- Her Friend." I stood gazing at the missive which the dead man had evidently believed that I had burned. It would not be difficult to search the files of the newspapers for 6th September 1908, and ascertain for what crime a prisoner named Lancaster had been sentenced. The information might, perhaps, lead me to some further discovery. I placed the letter carefully aside and made a most minute search of the dead man's clothes, and of his other belongings, but found absolutely nothing. Then, crossing the wasted hands, and placing the sheet tenderly over the white face, I left the room, and, descending, informed the hotel manager of what had occurred, while he, in turn, telephoned to an undertaker. The effects of the deceased were taken possession of by the hotel manager pending the opening of the letter of instructions, while I conveyed to my own room the ancient bronze cylinder and the golden image that was to be my mascot. Death in an hotel is always the cause of unpleasantness with the management, who declare it to be injurious to the reputation of the establishment, hence the body was conveyed away by night to await interment, while I moved to the Cecil. But that same night a man from the undertaker's came to me and asked me somewhat mysteriously what I knew concerning the dead man. "He was my friend," I replied. "Why do you make this inquiry?" "Well, sir," he answered, "the guv'nor sent me round to say that he's found he wore a false beard. It fell off!" The man's statement mystified me, more especially when he added-- "The body is that of a much younger man than the gentleman appeared to be. The guv'nor fancies there's a bit of a mystery about him."