FullReads

“‘That is of no use to me,’ Lyle said. He took out his card and showed it to the postman. ‘I am Inspector Lyle from Scotland Yard,’ he said. ‘The people in this house are under arrest. Everything it contains is now in my keeping. Did you deliver any other letters here this morning!’

“The man looked frightened, but answered promptly that he was now upon his third round. He had made one postal delivery at seven that morning and another at eleven.

“‘How many letters did you leave here!’ Lyle asked.

“‘About six altogether,’ the man answered.

“‘Did you put them through the door into the letter-box!’

“The postman said, ‘Yes, I always slip them into the box, and ring and go away. The servants collect them from the inside.’

“‘Have you noticed if any of the letters you leave here bear a Russian postage stamp!’ Lyle asked.

“The man answered, ‘Oh, yes, sir, a great many.’

“‘From the same person, would you say!’

“‘The writing seems to be the same,’ the man answered. ‘They come regularly about once a week–one of those I delivered this morning had a Russian postmark.’

“‘That will do,’ said Lyle eagerly. ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

“He ran back into the hall, and, pulling out his penknife, began to pick at the lock of the letter-box.

“‘I have been supremely careless,’ he said in great excitement. ‘Twice before when people I wanted had flown from a house I have been able to follow them by putting a guard over their mail-box. These letters, which arrive regularly every week from Russia in the same handwriting, they can come but from one person. At least, we shall now know the name of the master of this house. Undoubtedly it is one of his letters that the man placed here this morning. We may make a most important discovery.’

“As he was talking he was picking at the lock with his knife, but he was so impatient to reach the letters that he pressed too heavily on the blade and it broke in his hand. I took a step backward and drove my heel into the lock, and burst it open. The lid flew back, and we pressed forward, and each ran his hand down into the letterbox. For a moment we were both too startled to move. The box was empty.

“I do not know how long we stood staring stupidly at each other, but it was Lyle who was the first to recover. He seized me by the arm and pointed excitedly into the empty box.

“‘Do you appreciate what that means?’ he cried. ‘It means that some one has been here ahead of us. Some one has entered this house not three hours before we came, since eleven o’clock this morning.’

“‘It was the Russian servant!’ I exclaimed.

“‘The Russian servant has been under arrest at Scotland Yard,’ Lyle cried. ‘He could not have taken the letters. Lord Arthur has been in his cot at the hospital. That is his alibi. There is some one else, some one we do not suspect, and that some one is the murderer. He came back here either to obtain those letters because he knew they would convict him, or to remove something he had left here at the time of the murder, something incriminating,–the weapon, perhaps, or some personal article; a cigarette-case, a handkerchief with his name upon it, or a pair of gloves. Whatever it was it must have been damning evidence against him to have made him take so desperate a chance.’

“‘How do we know,’ I whispered, ‘that he is not hidden here now?’

“‘No, I’ll swear he is not,’ Lyle answered. ‘I may have bungled in some things, but I have searched this house thoroughly. Nevertheless,’ he added, ‘we must go over it again, from the cellar to the roof. We have the real clew now, and we must forget the others and work only it.’ As he spoke he began again to search the drawing-room, turning over even the books on the tables and the music on the piano. “‘Whoever the man is,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘we know that he has a key to the front door and a key to the letter-box. That shows us he is either an inmate of the house or that he comes here when he wishes. The Russian says that he was the only servant in the house. Certainly we have found no evidence to show that any other servant slept here. There could be but one other person who would possess a key to the house and the letter-box–and he lives in St. Petersburg. At the time of the murder he was two thousand miles away.’ Lyle interrupted himself suddenly with a sharp cry and turned upon me with his eyes flashing. ‘But was he?’ he cried. ‘Was he? How do we know that last night he was not in London, in this very house when Zichy and Chetney met?’