Arriving at the cottage, Doctor Allday discovered a gentleman, who was just closing the garden gate behind him.

“Has Miss Emily had a visitor?” he inquired, when the servant admitted him.

“The gentleman left a letter for Miss Emily, sir.”

“Did he ask to see her?”

“He asked after Miss Letitia’s health. When he heard that she was dead, he seemed to be startled, and went away immediately.”

“Did he give his name?”

“No, sir.”

The doctor found Emily absorbed over her letter. His anxiety to forestall any possible discovery of the deception which had concealed the terrible story of her father’s death, kept Doctor Allday’s vigilance on the watch. He doubted the gentleman who had abstained from giving his name; he even distrusted the other unknown person who had written to Emily.

She looked up. Her face relieved him of his misgivings, before she could speak.

“At last, I have heard from my dearest friend,” she said. “You remember what I told you about Cecilia? Here is a letter—a long delightful letter—from the Engadine, left at the door by some gentleman unknown. I was questioning the servant when you rang the bell.”

“You may question me, if you prefer it. I arrived just as the gentleman was shutting your garden gate.”

“Oh, tell me! what was he like?”

“Tall, and thin, and dark. Wore a vile republican-looking felt hat. Had nasty ill-tempered wrinkles between his eyebrows. The sort of man I distrust by instinct.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t shave.”

“Do you mean that he wore a beard?”

“Yes; a curly black beard.”

Emily clasped her hands in amazement. “Can it be Alban Morris?” she exclaimed.

The doctor looked at her with a sardonic smile; he thought it likely that he had discovered her sweetheart.

“Who is Mr. Alban Morris?” he asked.

“The drawing-master at Miss Ladd’s school.”

Doctor Allday dropped the subject: masters at ladies’ schools were not persons who interested him. He returned to the purpose which had brought him to the cottage—and produced the Handbill that had been sent to him in Emily’s letter.

“I suppose you want to have it back again?” he said.

She took it from him, and looked at it with interest.

“Isn’t it strange,” she suggested, “that the murderer should have escaped, with such a careful description of him as this circulated all over England?”

She read the description to the doctor.

“‘Name not known. Supposed age, between twenty-five and thirty years. A well-made man, of small stature. Fair complexion, delicate features, clear blue eyes. Hair light, and cut rather short. Clean shaven, with the exception of narrow half-whiskers. Small, white, well-shaped hands. Wore valuable rings on the two last fingers of the left hand. Dressed neatly—‘”

“That part of the description is useless,” the doctor remarked; “he would change his clothes.”

“But could he change his voice?” Emily objected. “Listen to this: ‘Remarkably good voice, smooth, full, and persuasive.’ And here again! ‘Ingratiating manners.’ Perhaps you will say he could put on an appearance of rudeness?”

“I will say this, my dear. He would be able to disguise himself so effectually that ninety-nine people out of a hundred would fail to identify him, either by his voice or his manner.”

“How?”

“Look back at the description: ‘Hair cut rather short, clean shaven, with the exception of narrow half-whiskers.’ The wretch was safe from pursuit; he had ample time at his disposal—don’t you see how he could completely alter the appearance of his head and face? No more, my dear, of this disagreeable subject! Let us get to something interesting. Have you found anything else among your aunt’s papers?”

“I have met with a great disappointment,” Emily replied. “Did I tell you how I discovered the Handbill?”

“No.”

“I found it, with the scrap-book and the newspaper cuttings, under a collection of empty boxes and bottles, in a drawer of the washhand-stand. And I naturally expected to make far more interesting discoveries in this room. My search was over in five minutes. Nothing in the cabinet there, in the corner, but a few books and some china. Nothing in the writing-desk, on that side-table, but a packet of note-paper and some sealing-wax. Nothing here, in the drawers, but tradesmen’s receipts, materials for knitting, and old photographs. She must have destroyed all her papers, poor dear, before her last illness; and the Handbill and the other things can only have escaped, because they were left in a place which she never thought of examining. Isn’t it provoking?&r............