"By Pauline," said Janoc.
"Ah, stolen?"
Janoc brushed aside the substituted word as a quibble.
"Conceive my horror when I heard of the murder!" he cried with hands flung wide and eyes that rolled. "I was sure that Pauline had mistaken the instructions——"
"Where is the St. Petersburg letter?" broke in Furneaux.
"Sapristi! You will scarce credit. It was taken from me by a man—a Russian agent he must have been—one night in the Fraternal Club, Soho——"
"Clarke, produce it," said Furneaux, grinning.
Clarke flushed, grew white, nervously thumbed some papers in a pocketbook, and handed to Winter the letter which commenced: "St. Petersburg says ..." and ended: "You will see to it that she to whose hands vengeance has been intrusted shall fail on the 3d."
Winter read, and frowned. Furneaux, too, read.
"The 3d!" he muttered. "Just Heaven, what a fatal date to her!"