"Well, that doesn't matter," Hanaud interposed a trifle quickly. "The point of importance to me is that when the case is done with, and I have a little time to devote to these letters, the telegram may be of value."
"Yes, I see," said Jim. "I see that," he repeated, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair; and opened his mouth and closed it again; and remained suspended between speech and silence, whilst Hanaud read through his file and contemplated his exhibits and found no hope in them.
"They lead me nowhere!" he cried violently; and Jim Frobisher made up his mind.
"Monsieur Hanaud, you do not share your thoughts with me," he said rather formally, "but I will deal with you in a better way; apart from this crime in the Maison Crenelle, you have the mystery of these anonymous letters to solve. I can help you to this extent. Another of them has been received."
"When?"
"To-night, whilst we sat at dinner."
"By whom?"
"Ann Upcott."
"What!"
Hanaud was out of his chair with a cry, towering up, his face white as the walls of the room, his eyes burning upon Frobisher. Never could news have been so unexpected, so startling.