“By peritonitis and a ruptured abscess. Really, I can’t think anything else. How could he be deliberately poisoned?”

“One of the letters threatened poison. The one he had last Monday, it was.”

“But many leading politicians get letters of that sort. Nothing ever happens. Forgive me, Lady O’Callaghan, but I’m sure you are utterly wrong. How could they have poisoned him? It’s—it’s impossible. I do beg you not to distress yourself.” He glanced uncomfortably at her placid face. “I’m sure you are quite mistaken,” ended Ronald wildly.

“Let us go into his room,” she murmured and, without another word, led the way into O’Callaghan’s study.

They unlocked the desk and she sat and watched, while Ronald went through the papers in the top pigeon-holes.

“The drawers on the left,” he explained to her, “were used for private correspondence—I did not have anything to do with them.”

“They will have to be opened. I will do that.”

“Of course. Here is one of the threatening letters— several—I think all of them. I wanted to show them to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn at the Yard. Sir Derek wouldn’t allow me to do so.”

“Let me see them.”

He gave her the bundle of letters and returned to the pigeon-holes.

“Here are his notes,” he said presently. She did not answer, and he glanced up and was astonished to surprise in her face an expression of some sort of an emotion. She looked venomous.

“Here is the letter I spoke of,” she said. “You will see that they threaten to poison him.”

“Yes. I see.”

“You still do not believe me, Mr. Jameson?”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I shall insist upon an inquiry.”

“An inquiry? Oh Lord!” said Ronald involuntarily. “I mean—I wouldn’t, really, Lady O’Callaghan. It’s—we’ve no grounds for it.”

“Are you taking these notes to the Prime Minister to-day?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell him, if you please, what I propose to do? You may discuss it with him. In the meantime I shall go through the private letters. Have you the keys of those drawers?”

Ronald took a bunch of keys from the desk, and with an air of reluctance put them in her hand.

“When is your appointment?”

“For three o’clock.”

“It is now only half-past two. Please come and see me before you leave.”

As he left her she was fitting a key to the bottom drawer.

To anybody who had the curiosity to watch him—Nash, the butler, for instance—Ronald Jameson would have appeared to be very much upset. He went up to his bedroom, wandered aimlessly about, smoked three cigarettes, and finally sat on the bed, staring in a sort of trance at a wood-engraving that hung above his dressing-table. At last he looked at his watch, went downstairs, got his hat and umbrella, and returned to the study.