Her failings—everyone has a few, even I—were a quick temper and an impetuous nature. It was this last that had led her into a disastrous marriage with a man who had turned out to be a consummate villain. His violent death had led her to suffer a miscarriage, which given her husband’s character, might have been regarded as a blessing in disguise. However, she did not so regard it. Upon the advice of our dear family physician, Dr. Willoughby, I had taken her to a renowned psychiatric institution in Paris. With the strength of character I knew she possessed, she had made an excellent recovery and had, most sensibly in my opinion, gone on with her medical studies. There is nothing like hard work and a goal in life to assist mental healing.

“Emerson,” I exclaimed. “This is from Nefret. Good news, my dear!” For he had turned toward me, anxiety writ large upon his handsome countenance. I went on, “She is joining us here within a few days.”

“Do you think she is up to it?”

“Here, read the letter for yourself.”

His frown smoothed out as he read. “She sounds quite her old self. Are you sure she—”

“Youth is resilient, my dear. Nefret is too well balanced an individual to spend her life reliving old sorrows and mistakes. Learn from the past and then put it behind you. Get on with—”

“Well put, my dear,” said Emerson rather loudly. “That is good news indeed. What the devil are they doing next door?”

“Removing the body, I trust.”

“Quite. It is a decided inconvenience to have a corpse in one’s bath chamber.”

“Why, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “I believe you are being ironic.”

“What?” His heavy brows drew together. From his pocket he removed a folded paper, unfolded it, stared at it, refolded it, and replaced it in his pocket.

“You say the fellow uttered a few words before he died?”

“Two words, to be precise,” I replied. “‘You’ and ‘murder.’”

“Stating the obvious, wasn’t he?” Emerson took out the paper, unfolded it, and stared at it, frowning. “Are you certain that is what he said?”

“I assure you, Emerson, my hearing is unimpaired.”

“No doubt; but the ability of a dying man to articulate clearly is impaired.”

“You have, I presume, an alternative suggestion?” My tone was, I admit, a trifle sarcastic.

“As a matter of fact,” said Emerson, “I have not.”

“Then why did you question my hearing?”

“Because you are always hearing words like ‘murder.’ Never mind what he may or may not have said; the most important thing is that bit of pasteboard with the word ‘Judas.’ I feel certain it is a vital clue.”

“It is a possibility worthy of . . . Emerson, will you please stop doing that and pay attention?” For once again he had removed the paper from his pocket. “What is so absorbing about that paper? Where did it come from?”

“It had been pushed under the door,” he muttered.