reassuringly. “Got the picture?”      

       Mr. Sabin touched the spring of a small gold locket which he drew from an inside waistcoat pocket, and disclosed a beautifully painted miniature. Mr. Skinner’s thick lips were pursed into a whistle. He was on the point of making a remark when he chanced to glance into Mr. Sabin’s face. The remark remained unspoken.     

       He drew a sheet of note-paper towards him and made a few notes upon it.     

       “The Duchess many friends in New York?”      

       “At present none. The few people whom she knows here are at Newport or in Europe just now.”      

       “Any idea whom she went to the Waldorf to see? More we know the better.”      

       Mr. Sabin handed him the letter which had been picked up in the cab. Mr. Skinner read it through, and spat once more upon the floor.     

       “What the h—-’s this funny coloured pencil mean?”      

       “I do not know,” Mr. Sabin answered. “You will see that the two anonymous       communications which I have received since arriving in New York yesterday are written in the same manner.”      

       Mr. Sabin handed him the other two letters, which Mr. Skinner carefully perused.     

       “I guess you’d better tell me who you are,” he suggested.     

       “I am the husband of the Duchess of Souspennier,” Mr. Sabin answered.     

       “The Duchess send any word home at all?” Mr. Skinner asked.     

       Mr. Sabin produced a worn telegraph form. It was handed in at Fifth Avenue, New York, at six o’clock on Friday. It contained the single word       ‘Good-bye.’      

       “H’m,” Mr. Skinner remarked. “We’ll find all you want to know by to-morrow sure.”      

       “What do you make of the two letters which I received?” Mr. Sabin asked.     

       “Bunkum!” Mr. Skinner replied confidently.     

       Mr. Sabin nodded his head.     

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