“What I say, madam. I will tell you quite frankly why I came here to-day. I came to Rowton Heights for a double purpose. I am, I believe, in possession at last of a valuable clue which may lead to the arrest of the man who took your brother’s life; but I find on looking into matters that there are complications in connection with this search, and because of these, I would earnestly beg of you, from a friendly point of view, to give up the search. Now, Mrs. Rowton, I shall not explain myself. Once again I beg of you to let the matter drop. Do not carry on this search any further.”
“I wonder at you,” said Nance, with sparkling eyes; “and you call yourself a professional detective!”
“I do, madam, I do; but even a professional detective may have a heart.”
“Well, listen to me,” said Nance. “I hate the man who killed my brother. Two passions move me—love for my husband, and hatred for the man who killed my young brother. When I think of that ruffian I have no heart; when I think of my ruined father’s life, of my brother’s shameful death, I have no heart—none. I am under a vow to the dead. I must carry on this search. Do you understand me?”
“I do, Mrs. Rowton. Well, I have done my duty in recommending mercy to you. Some day you may regret that you have not listened to me.”
“I shall never regret it. Now let us drop this side of the question. You have a clue—tell me all about it.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TORN LETTER AND THE MARK.
Crossley heaved a sigh, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped some drops of moisture from his brow, and then began to speak in a dry, business-like tone.
“You know how very slight our clues have been up to the present?” he said after a pause. “Your brother was murdered in a café in Paris; murderer unknown; motive of the crime unknown. A man who is now in his grave appeared on the scene half-an-hour after the murder was committed. He found close to the body of the murdered man half a sheet of paper on which something in cipher was written, and at the foot of the cipher in place of signature were some very peculiar hieroglyphics. That piece of paper has lain in my possession for years. I have studied the cipher and the hieroglyphics which stood in place of a signature with the utmost care. I have transposed the alphabet in all manner of ways, not only at my office when I had a moment to spare, but over my evening pipe at home. With infinite trouble I have made out a few words, but nothing to give me any clue to the identity of the man to whom the paper belonged.