self, he discarded his evening clothes, and picked up a dressing-gown and a bath towel.
Then suddenly he stopped dead in front of the dressing-table, staring at the object that reposed demurely in front of the looking-glass.
For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He took it up, examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistake.
It was the bundle of letters signed Virginia Revel. They were intact. Not one was missing.
Anthony dropped into a chair, the letters in his hand.
“My brain must be cracking,” he murmured. “I can’t understand a quarter of what is going on in this house. Why should the letters reappear like a damned conjuring trick? Who put them on my dressing-table? Why?”
And to all these very pertinent questions he could find no satisfactory reply.
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