"Heaven knows! She makes no sign. No, the letter is not from her."
His face was so pale, his aspect so disordered, that Jacynth could only gaze at him in surprise. And seeing his expression, Frank suddenly thrust the letter into his hand.
"See there," he said. "What does it mean? Do you think there is anything in it? If it should be true—of Fenella, my darling—what have we done?" And he sank down in a chair beside the table, and buried his face in his hands.
Jacynth opened the letter, which was written on coarse blue paper, and inclosed in a common envelope. Outside it looked like a tradesman's circular. There was no stamp, no postmark; it was simply superscribed with Onslow's name, and addressed to the hotel. The writing was evidently disguised, many of the words were printed, others written in a sloping hand.
"I will not tell you who I am," the letter began, "or you may not believe me; nevertheless, I speak the truth. I am the only person, except Lady Onslow, who can unravel the mystery of Count de Mürger's death. From her lips you will never hear it; will you hear it from mine?
"She is innocent of his death; I can convince you of that. She is screening another. Do you not want to know his name? I was in the corridor on the night when the murder took place; I saw and heard all that occurred.
