fallen.  He was so taken aback that I thought he was going to faint.  I was standing where you may be now, and I called out to him to know whether I could do anything for him.  I liked the man, you see, and pitied him for his loneliness.  What’s more, he and my husband had always been on friendly terms together.  Well, as I was going on to say, he didn’t answer, but pulling himself together, went into the house and shut the door.  When next I saw him he was quite himself again.”

At last the case was beginning to look more hopeful.  I thought I could see a faint spark of light ahead.

“Did you happen to say anything about this to the other detectives when they were making inquiries after the crime had been committed?” I asked, with a little anxiety.

“No, I did not,” she replied.  “I never gave it a thought.  It was such a long time before the murder, you see, and to tell the truth I had forgotten all about it.  It was only when you began to talk of Italy and of his having been there, that I remembered it.  You don’t mean to say you think that letter had something to do with the man’s death?”

“That is a very difficult question to answer,” I observed.  “I think, however, it is exceedingly likely it may have had some connection with it.  At any rate we shall see.  Now will you think for one moment, and see whether you can tell me the exact day on which that letter arrived?”

She considered for a few moments before she answered.

“I believe I can, if you will give me time to turn it over in my mind,” she said.  “My husband was at home that morning, and Willie, that’s my little boy, was very much upset because I would not let him stay away from school to help his father in the garden.  Yes, sir, I can tell you the exact date.  It was on a Monday, and the third of June.”

I thanked her for the information she had given me, and then went off to see what use it was likely to prove to me.  The letter from Italy had been delivered in Brisbane on the third of June.  The murder was committed on the night of the nineteenth of July, or, in other words, forty-six days later.  With all speed I set off to the office of the Royal Mail Steamship Company, where I asked to be shown their passenger-list for the vessel that arrived on the nineteenth of July.  When it was handed to me I scanned it eagerly in the hope of discovering an Italian name.  There were at least a dozen in the steerage, and one in the first-class.  I was relieved, however, to find that all but the first-class passengers had disembarked at Cairns, further up the coast.  The name of the exception was Steffano Gairdi, and he was a passenger from Naples.

“You can’t tell me anything more definite about this gentleman, I suppose?” I said to the clerk who was attending to me.  “Did you happen to see him?”

“He was in here only this morning,” the man replied.

“Here, when?” I inquired, with such surprise that the other clerks looked up from their books at me in astonishment.  “Do you mean to tell me that the gentleman I am asking about was here this morning?”