able, and the simulation of suicide perfect.
The typed letter to the police, the draft advertisement, the previous announcements in the Morning Post, all show that, controlling this sinister business, there is some master mind. I want to meet him. Who is he?"
"Very likely that I would tell—eh?" she laughed.
"Better tell me," I said. "You know his secrets, hence you will sooner or later die, as all who have known his secrets have died by some subtle and unsuspected means—died like that young man died."
It was a wild shot of mine, but the old woman gave vent to a low, harsh laugh.
"I think not," she said confidently. "I can take care of myself."
"And the young man who has just left this house is marked down as the next victim—eh?" I asked in a low, dry tone.
She was silent for a moment. Then she raised her thin, intelligent face to mine, and said:
"I realize that, whoever you are, you know something."
"My name is More d'Escombe. I am a medical man," was my brief reply. "It is true that I am in full possession of the means
