the edges of the opening were jagged and uneven.     

       When the detective had read the letter—it contained but a few lines and bore neither address nor signature—he glanced over it once more as if to memorise the words. They were as follows: “Do not come again. In a day or two I will be able to do what I have to do. I will send you later news to your office. Impatience will not help you.”—These words were written hastily on a piece of paper that looked as if it had been torn from a pad. In spite of the haste the writer had been at some pains to disguise the handwriting. But it was a clumsy disguise, done by one not accustomed to such tricks, and it was evidently done by a woman. All she had known how to do to disguise her writing had been to twist and turn the paper while writing, so that every letter had a different position. The letters were also made unusually long. This peculiarity of the writing was seen on both letters and both envelopes. The earlier letter was still shorter and seemed to have been written with the same haste, and with the same disgust, or perhaps even hatred, for the man to whom it was written.     

       “Come to-morrow, but not before eight o’clock. He has gone away. God forgive him and you.” This was the contents of the letter of the 17th of March. That is, the writer had penned the letter this way. But the last two words, “and you,” had evidently not come from her heart, for she had annulled them by a heavy stroke of the pen. A stroke that seemed like a knife thrust, so full of rage and hate it was.     

       “So he was called to a rendezvous in Hietzing, too,” murmured Muller, then he added after a few moments: “But this rendezvous had nothing whatever to do with love.”      

       There was nothing else in Winkler’s room which could be of any value to Muller in the problem that was now before him. And yet he was very well satisfied with the result of his errand.     

       He entered his cab again, ordering the driver to take him to Hietzing. Just before he had reached the corner where he had told the man to stop, another cab passed them, a coupe, in which was a solitary woman. Muller had just time enough to recognise this woman as Adele Bernauer, and to see that she looked even more haggard and miserable than she had that morning. She did not look up as the other cab passed her carriage, therefore she    

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