was that the photograph was that of Doreen; the other that a postal
order for one pound, which lay beside the photograph, and upon which the
ink was not yet dry, was made out to "Mrs. Edward Jacobs."

Max felt himself blushing as Dudley snatched up the postal orders--there
were two of them--and slip them into an envelope. Then the eyes of the
two men met. And Dudley knew what Max had seen.

He seemed to hesitate a moment, then glanced at Max again, sat down to
the writing-table, and took up a pen. As he directed the letter, he said
quietly:

"Do you know whom I'm sending this money to?"

"Well, I did catch sight of the name," stammered Max, unable to hide the
fact that the question was an embarrassing one to him.

"Yes," went on Dudley, as he showed him the directed letter, "it is to
the widow of the poor devil who was found in the Thames the other
day--man who was once in my late father's employment--Edward Jacobs."

"Oh, yes, I've heard," stammered Max again.

The incident of Dudley sending money to the woman would have seemed to
him trivial and even natural enough, if it had not been for the curious
look of hard defiance which Dudley gave him out of his black eyes. It
was like a challenge; it set his friend wondering again, asking himself
again all those tormenting questions about Edward Jacobs's death which
he had allowed to slip into a back place in his thoughts.