“I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly.

“You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our

arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon

us.”


“My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I

were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any

assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy.”


“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit

dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, “I

should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg

that you will give a plain answer.”


“Certainly, madam.”


“Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to

fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”


“Upon what point?”


“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”


Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly,

now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him

as he leaned back in a basket-chair.


“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”


“You think that he is dead?”


“I do.”


“Murdered?”


“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”


“And on what day did he meet his death?”


“On Monday.”


“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is

that I have received a letter from him to-day.”


Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.


“What!” he roared.


“Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper

in the air.


“May I see it?”


“Certainly.”


He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table

he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was

gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was

stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or