Listen: I am a newspaperwoman, a special writer on the New York _Star_." She paused, her cheeks flushing with nervousness.
"It--it was very strange that I met you first of all, for--for it seems that the case is of personal interest to you." "To me! Why, that is hardly likely, if it originated in New York." "It did"-- she drew in a sharp breath--"for it originated in the murder of Frederick Cavendish." "The murder of Cavendish! He has been killed ?" "Yes; at least that is what every one believes, except possibly one man--his former valet.

His body was found lying dead on the floor of his private apartment, the door of his safe open, the money and papers missing.

The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of murder on these facts." "And the murderer ?" "Left no clue; it was believed to be the work of a burglar." "But when was this ?" She gave the date, and he studied over it.
"The same day he should have received my telegram," he said gravely.
"That's why the poor fellow never answered." He turned to her suddenly.

"But what became of my others," he asked, "and of all the letters I wrote ?" "That is exactly what I want to learn.

They must have been delivered to his cousin, John Cavendish.