He found Lady O’Callaghan seated at the desk with a neatly arranged pile of letters in front of her. She did not turn her head when he came in. She simply stared very fixedly at a paper she held in her hand. It struck him that she had sat like that for some time—while he himself had done much the same thing upstairs in his room. Her face was always pale—she did not use rouge—but he thought now that it was deadly white. There was a thin ridge, like a taut thread, linking her nostrils with the corners of her mouth.

“Come here,” she said quietly.

He went and stood by the desk.

“You told me that night, a week ago, I think, that my husband had received a letter that seemed to upset him. Was this the letter?”

He glanced at it and then looked away. envelope.”

“I did not see the letter,” he stammered. “Only the envelope.”

“Is that the envelope?”

“I—I think so. I can’t be sure.”

“Read it.”

With an expression of extreme distaste he read the letter. It was Jane Harden’s.

“If an opportunity presented itself,” Jane had written, “I would not hesitate to kill you.”

Ronald put it down on the desk.

“Now read this.”

The second letter was from Sir John Phillips. Phillips had written it at fever-heat on the night he got home from his interview with O’Callaghan, and had posted it before he had time to cool down.

“I gather you’re going to cut your losses and evade what, to any decent man, would be a responsibility. You talked of sending Jane a cheque. She will, of course, either tear it up or return it. I cannot force your hand, for that would do still more harm to a lady who is already deeply wronged. I warn you, however, to keep clear of me. I’ve a certain devil in me that I thought was scotched, but you have brought it to life again, and I think I could very easily kill you. This may sound like hyperbole; as a matter of fact, it is a meiosis. John Phillips.”

“Have you seen that before?” asked Lady O’Callaghan.

“Never,” said Ronald.

“You notice the signature? It was written by the man who operated on my husband.”

“Yes.”

“Who is this woman—Jane Harden?”

“Honestly, I have no idea, Lady O’Callaghan.”

“No? A nurse, evidently. Look at the address, Mr. Jameson.”

“Good God,” said Ronald. “It’s—it’s the nursing-home.”

“Yes. We sent him to a strange place for his operation.”

“But—”

“Will you please take these letters with you?”

“But, Lady O’Callaghan, I can’t possibly show them to the P.M.—the Prime Minister—really!”

“Then I shall have to do so myself. Of course, there must be an inquest.”