my way or I should have had my extracts ready,” said he. “The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly sensational, appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting personality of the accused does not obscure the clearness of the evidence. That was the view taken by the coroner’s jury and also in the police-court proceedings. It is now referred to the Assizes at Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can discover facts, Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new and unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope for.”
“Your client?”
“Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved habit, Watson, of telling a story backwards. You had best read this first.”
The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand, ran as follows:
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,—
I can’t see the best woman God ever made go to her death without doing all that is possible to save her. I can’t explain things—I can’t even try to explain them, but I know beyond all doubt that Miss Dunbar is innocent. You know the facts—who doesn’t? It has been the gossip of the country. And never a voice raised for her! It’s the damned injustice of it all that makes me crazy. That woman has a heart that wouldn’t let her kill a fly. Well, I’ll come at eleven to-morrow and see if you can get some ray of light in the dark. Maybe I have a clue
