"No; I am puzzled."
"In what way?"
"To think how you managed to get that letter sent on from Paris without being there yourself."
"Against stupidity the gods themselves fight in vain," quoth Felix, shrugging his shoulders. "I assure you that my brother Felix is in Paris. Miss Bellin is about to produce a letter received from him only this morning, and yet you insist that I am not myself, and that he whom I pretend to be is dead. You are mad."
"Here is the letter," said Miss Bellin, entering at this moment. "You see it bears the date of yesterday, He is at present staying at the Hôtel des Étrangers, Rue de St. Honoré, but talks of going to Italy."
I examined the letter closely. It was genuine enough; of that there was no doubt, as it bore the French and English postmarks. I quite believed that it was written by Felix, but also that it had been forwarded from Paris by an emissary of the young man in order to keep up the needful deception. Certainly Felix had a marked talent for intrigue.
"If Felix Briarfield is in Paris," said I, handing back the letter to Olivia, "who was it I met at the Fen Inn last night?"
"The Fen Inn!" replied Olivia, with a puzzled look; "why, no one lives there now, Mr. Denham. It is in ruins, and has been empty for over two years."
"Nevertheless, it was tenanted last night, and I slept there. Also I met Francis Briarfield at the same place."
"Francis was not out of the house last night," declared Olivia decisively.