The Poisoned Pen | Page 5

a
letter from Vera Lytton herself. You will notice it is dated the day of
her death."
He laid the letter before us. It was written in a curious greyish-black ink
in a woman's hand, and read:
DEAR HARRIS: Since we agreed to disagree we have at least been
good friends, if no longer lovers. I am not writing in anger to reproach

you with your new love, so soon after the old. I suppose Alma Willard
is far better suited to be your wife than is a poor little actress - rather
looked down on in this Puritan society here. But there is something I
wish to warn you about, for it concerns us all intimately.
We are in danger of an awful mix-up if we don't look out. Mr. Thurston
- I had almost said my husband, though I don't know whether that is the
truth or not - who has just come over from New York, tells me that
there is some doubt about the validity of our divorce. You recall he was
in the South at the time I sued him, and the papers were served on him
in Georgia. He now says the proof of service was fraudulent and that he
can set aside the divorce. In that case you might figure in a suit for
alienating my affections.
I do not write this with ill will, but simply to let you know how things
stand. If we had married, I suppose I would be guilty of bigamy. At any
rate, if he were disposed he could make a terrible scandal.
Oh, Harris, can't you settle with him if he asks anything? Don't forget
so soon that we once thought we were going to be the happiest of
mortals - at least I did. Don't desert me, or the very earth will cry out
against you. I am frantic and hardly know what I am writing. My head
aches, but it is my heart that is breaking. Harris, I am yours still, down
in my heart, but not to be cast off like an old suit for a new one. You
know the old saying about a woman scorned. I beg you not to go back
on
Your poor little deserted VERA.
As we finished reading, Leland exclaimed, "That never must come
before the jury."
Kennedy was examining the letter carefully. "Strange," he muttered.
"See how it was folded. It was written on the wrong side of the sheet,
or rather folded up with the writing outside. Where have these letters
been?"
"Part of the time in my safe, part of the time this afternoon on my desk

by the window."
"The office was locked, I suppose?" asked Kennedy. "There was no
way to slip this letter in among the others since you obtained them?"
"None. The office has been locked, and there is no evidence of any one
having entered or disturbed a thing."
He was hastily running over the pile of letters as if looking to see
whether they were all there. Suddenly he stopped.
"Yes," he exclaimed excitedly, "one of them is gone." Nervously he
fumbled through them again. "One is gone," he repeated, looking at us,
startled.
"What was it about?" asked Craig.
"It was a note from an artist, Thurston, who gave the address of Mrs.
Boncour's bungalow - ah, I see you have heard of him. He asked
Dixon's recommendation of a certain patent headache medicine. I
thought it possibly evidential, and I asked Dixon about it. He explained
it by saying that he did not have a copy of his reply, but as near as he
could recall, he wrote that the compound would not cure a headache
except at the expense of reducing heart action dangerously. He says he
sent no prescription. Indeed, he thought it a scheme to extract advice
without incurring the charge for an office call and answered it only
because he thought Vera had become reconciled to Thurston again. I
can't find that letter of Thurston's. It is gone."
We looked at each other in amazement.
"Why, if Dixon contemplated anything against Miss Lytton, should he
preserve this letter from her?" mused Kennedy. "Why didn't he destroy
it?"
"That's what puzzles me," remarked Leland. "Do you suppose some
one has broken in and substituted this Lytton letter for the Thurston
letter?

Kennedy was scrutinising the letter, saying nothing. "I may keep it?" he
asked at length. Leland was quite willing and even undertook to obtain
some specimens of the writing of Vera Lytton. With these and the letter
Kennedy was working far into the night and long after I had passed into
a land troubled with many wild dreams of deadly poisons and secret
intrigues of artists.
The next morning a message from our old friend