The eyes of the two men crossed.

“There are such things as anonymous letters,” observed Mr. Kentworthy dryly.

“Anonymous letters?”

Surprised though he felt, he told himself that he had been a fool not to think of that solution of the mystery.

“I didn’t know,” he muttered, “that poor Garlett had an enemy in the world. But I suppose you can’t run any business without making some bad blood.”

“I suppose you can’t,” agreed the other. “But one thing I will tell you. The letters in question were never written by a factory hand.”

He leant forward and instinctively lowering his voice, he went on:

“Can you think of any one who bears Mr. Garlett a grudge? Having said so much I think I may go a step further and say that we have no doubt at all that it is a woman.”

“A woman?”

Again the doctor’s suspicions swung around to Miss Prince.

“I understand that before his wife’s death Mr. Garlett went about a great deal?” went on the other thoughtfully.

“That’s true. Garlett’s a very good fellow, and very popular. As a famous cricketer he knew people more or less all over England, and the only kind of business he really did for the Etna China works was that of sometimes acting as a sort of glorified commercial traveller.”

“That being so, Dr. Maclean, don’t you think it possible that he may have formed some kind of connection which he gave up as, queerly enough, a good many men do give up such friendships after a wife’s death?”

“In this strange world of ours,” said the doctor reluctantly, “everything is possible. But I would have staked a good deal that that particular thing was never true of Harry Garlett. I take it you have seen the anonymous letters in question?”

The police inspector quietly opened his black attaché case.

“I see no reason why I should not show the letters to you 77now!” he exclaimed. “I feel certain the originals will be submitted for your inspection at the Home Office. I, of course, have only a set of facsimiles.”

77

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