you, Ambler," I answered calmly. "We are the best of friends, and I hope we shall always be so. Will you not forgive me for refusing to show you these letters?"
"I only ask you one question. Have they anything to do with the matter we are investigating?"
I hesitated. With his quick perception he saw that a lie was not ready upon my lips.
"They have. Your silence tells me so. In that case it is your duty to show me them," he said, quietly.
I protested again, but he overwhelmed my arguments. In common fairness to him I ought not, I knew, keep back the truth. And yet it was the greatest and most terrible blow that had ever fallen upon me. He saw that I was crushed and stammering, and he stood by me wondering.
"Forgive me, Ambler," I urged again. "When you have read this letter you will fully understand why I have endeavoured to conceal it from you; why, if you were not present here at this moment, I would burn them all and not leave a trace behind."
Then I handed it to him.
He took it eagerly, skimmed it through, and started just as I had started when he saw the signature. Upon his face was a blank expression, and he returned it to me without a word.
"Well?" I asked. "What is your opinion?"
"My opinion is the same as your own, Ralph, old fellow," he answered slowly, looking me straight in the face. "It is amazing--startling--tragic."
"You think, then, that the motive of the crime was jealousy?"
"The letter makes it quite plain," he answered huskily. "Give me the others. Let me examine them. I know how severe this blow must be to you, old fellow," he added, sympathetically.
"Yes, it has staggered me," I stammered. "I'm utterly dumfounded by the unexpected revelation!" and I handed him the packet of correspondence, which he placed upon the table, and, seating himself, commenced eagerly to examine letter after letter.
While he was thus engaged I took up the first letter, and read it through--right to the bitter end.
It was apparently the last of a long correspondence, for all the letters were arranged chronologically, and this was the last of the packet. Written from Neneford Manor, Northamptonshire, and vaguely dated "Wednesday," as is a woman's habit, it was addressed to Mr. Courtenay, and ran as follows:--_"Words cannot express my contempt for a man who breaks his word as easily as you break yours. A year ago, when you were my father's guest, you told me that you loved me, and urged me to marry you. At first I laughed at your proposal; then when I found you really serious, I pointed out the difference of our ages. You, in return, declared that you loved me with all the ardour of a young man; that I was your ideal; and you promised, by all you held most sacred, that if I consented I should never regret. I believed you, and believed the false words of 

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