In an instant we were all eager attention. I saw that it was a sheet of my own note-paper, and upon it, in a man's handwriting, was the commencement of a letter:
"My dear Miss Rosselli,—I have——"
That was all. It broke off short. There were no other words. The paper had been crushed and flung away, as though the writer, on mature thought, had resolved not to address me by letter. I had never seen Reggie's handwriting, but on comparison with some entries in a note-book found in his pocket, the police pronounced it to be his.
What did he wish to tell me?
About an hour after midnight we sent up to the Villa Fabron for Gerald, who returned in the cab which conveyed our messenger.
When we told him the terrible truth he stood open-mouthed, rooted to the spot.
"Reggie dead!" he gasped. "Murdered?"
"Undoubtedly," answered Ulrica. "The mystery is inexplicable, but with your aid we must solve it."
"With my aid?" he cried. "I fear I cannot help you. I know nothing whatever about it."
"Of course not," I said. "But now tell us, what is your theory? You were his best friend and would therefore probably know if he had any enemy who desired to wreak revenge upon him."