open. I had reached a point at which I felt that, at any and every cost, I must get out of the darkness into the light.
The contents of the letter I give verbatim.
"Dear Tom,
"I am going to see that scoundrel to-night He had better take care, or something will happen to him, of that I am sure. And he will be sure before I have done with him. In any case, I'll write you at length to-morrow."
Two points struck me about this odd epistle: it contained neither a date nor an address, and, while "George Withers" was on the envelope, the letter itself began "Dear Tom," the inference being that "George Withers" was an assumed name, to which it had been arranged that communications should be directed. The "B." of the signature was, I had little doubt, the "Bessie" of the scraps of paper; in which case the "E," which Mrs. Peddar had discovered on the linen, stood for "Elizabeth." There still remained the puzzle of the "M."
The letter had scarcely a reassuring effect. That the "scoundrel" alluded to was Lawrence, and that "to-night" was last night, I thought was probable. If that were so, then it seemed
