"So far," continued Boyd, thoughtfully, pushing his hat to the back of
his head, "we've proved one thing--that this stuff is poison."
"Yes," I said. "But these photographs? Is it not extraordinary that we
find them here among Eva's possessions?"
"It's all extraordinary," he answered. "The letters more strange than
anything," and he unlocked the third drawer expectantly, only, however,
to find it contained something small wrapped in a piece of dirty
wash-leather. He placed it before him, carefully opening it and
disclosing something which caused us both to give vent to exclamations
of surprise.
Inside was a most commonplace object, yet to us it had a meaning
peculiarly tragic--a single penny.
Both of us recollected vividly the finding of a similar coin carefully
wrapped in paper upon the body of the man at Phillimore Place, and there
must, we decided, be some mysterious connexion between our two
discoveries.
"These letters," observed Boyd, putting aside the coin and its wrapping
and taking up the correspondence he had been examining when I had found
the box of mysterious powder, "they are all addressed to Miss Glaslyn,
and in one only, as far as I can see, is her mother mentioned. They
evidently refer to some deep secret."
"Do you think the silence can refer to the affair at Kensington?" I
suggested, holding one of the letters in my hand.
"It's impossible to tell," he answered. "We have now the clearest proof
that these letters were preserved in secret by Eva Glaslyn, together
with some unknown but fatal drug, and the photographs of the victim.
Therefore, if circumstantial evidence may be trusted, I should be
inclined to believe that these letters refer to the matter which we are
investigating. Perhaps, indeed, the peril mentioned in one of the
letters refers to your own endeavours to fathom the mystery."
"The whole thing is utterly bewildering," I said, re-reading the letter
in my hand, a communication which certainly was of a most veiled
character, evidently being type-written to disguise the writer's
identity.
"There is no object whatever to be gained by adopting your suggestion,"
it ran. "The only absolutely safe course is to continue as in the past.
The silence is effectual, and for the present is enough. All your
fears are quite groundless. Show a bold front and be cautious always.
If you wish to write, send your letter to the old address."
Each of the others were similarly unintelligible, except perhaps the
later one, in which the writer said: "You are right. I, too, have
discovered cause for apprehension. A peril threatens, but if the secret
is preserved it cannot harm us."
With the mass of papers and correspondence spread before us we all three
examined these suspicious letters very carefully. In the drawer which
Boyd had opened was, among other things, a few girlish trinkets and
souvenirs of the past, and a note signed "Mary Blain," and dated from
Riverdene a couple of months before.
In the face of recent events it was a somewhat noteworthy missive, for
beginning "Dearest Eva," it gave her an invitation for tennis on the
following day, Tuesday. "I have also your admirer," she went on, "and
he will no doubt come. Perhaps I shall be compelled to go to town
to-morrow afternoon on business, the urgent nature of which you may
guess. If I do I will convey your message to the quarter for which it
is intended. Be careful how you act, and what you say to F," (meaning,
I suppose, myself), "for I have no great faith in him. His friend is,
of course, entirely well-disposed towards us."