do not believe it. There is more than that, here. Come, I can do nothing more to-night, until I learn more from these animals and the cultures which I have in these tubes. Let us take a turn or two, then dine, and perhaps we may get some word at our apartment from Edward."
It was late that night when a gentle tap at the door proved that Kennedy's hope had not been unfounded. I opened it and let in Edward, the valet, who produced the fragments of a note, torn and crumpled.
"There is nothing new, sir," he explained, "except that Mrs. Pitts seems more nervous than ever, and Mr. Pitts, I think, is feeling a little brighter."
Kennedy said nothing, but was hard at work with puckered brows at piecing together the note which Edward had obtained after hunting through the house. It had been thrown into a fireplace in Mrs. Pitts's own room, and only by chance had part of it been unconsumed. The body of the note was gone altogether, but the first part and the last part remained.
Apparently it had been written the very morning on which the murder was discovered.
It read simply, "I have succeeded in having Thornton declared . . ." Then there was a break. The last words were legible, and were, ". . . confined in a suitable institution where he can cause no future harm."
There was no signature, as if the sender had perfectly understood that the receiver would understand.
"Not difficult to supply some of the context, at any rate," mused Kennedy. "Whoever Thornton may be
