Petersburg four days ago. The back of the envelope bore the postmark
of the branch-station in upper Sloane Street, and was dated this
morning. The envelope was of official, blue paper, and we had no
difficulty in finding the other two parts of it. We drew the torn
pieces of the letter from them and joined them together, side by
side. There were but two lines of writing, and this was the message:
'I leave Petersburg on the night-train, and I shall see you at Trevor
Terrace, after dinner, Monday evening.'
"'That was last night!' Lyle cried. 'He arrived twelve hours ahead of
his letter--but it came in time--it came in time to hang him!'"
The Baronet struck the table with his hand.
"The name!" he demanded. "How was it signed? What was the man's
name?"
The young Solicitor rose to his feet and, leaning forward, stretched
out his arm. "There was no name," he cried. "The letter was signed
with only two initials. But engraved at the top of the sheet was the
man's address. That address was 'THE AMERICAN EMBASSY, ST.
PETERSBURG, BUREAU OF THE NAVAL ATTACHE,' and the initials," he
shouted, his voice rising into an exultant and bitter cry, "were
those of the gentleman who sits opposite who told us that he was the
first to find the murdered bodies, the Naval Attache to Russia,
Lieutenant Sears!"
A strained and awful hush followed the Solicitor's words, which
seemed to vibrate like a twanging bowstring that had just hurled its
bolt.
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