friendless and helpless, and who will no longer trouble the world? It is this: Take this letter to London, and call upon Mr. Martin Woodroffe at 98, Cork Street, Piccadilly. Show him my letter, and tell him from me that through it all I have kept my promise, and that the secret is still safe. He will understand — and also know why I cannot write this with my own hand. If he is abroad, keep it until he returns.
"It is all I ask of you, Lydia, and I know that if this reaches you, you will not refuse me. You have been my only friend and confidante, but I now bid you farewell, for the unknown beckons me, and from the grave I cannot write. Again farewell, and for ever —
"Your loving and affectionate friend,
"Elma."
"A very strange letter, is it not?" remarked the girl at my side. “I can't make it out. You see there is no address, but the postmark is Russian. She is evidently in Russia."
"In Finland," I said, examining the stamp and making out the post town to be Abo. "But have you been to London and executed this strange commission?"
"No. We are going up next week. I intend to call upon this person named Woodroffe."
I made no remark. He was, I knew, abroad, but I was glad to have obtained two very important clues: first the address of the mysterious yachtsman Woodroffe, alias Hornby, and, secondly, to have
