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"DEAR SIR: The police have told me that you are in Princetown,
and it seems as though Providence had sent you. I fear that I
have no right to seek your services directly, but if you can
answer the prayer of a heartbroken woman and give her the
benefit of your genius in this dark moment, she would be
unspeakably thankful.
"Faithfully yours,
JENNY PENDEAN."
Mark Brendon murmured "damn" gently under his breath. Then he turned
to Will.
"Where is Mrs. Pendean's house?" he asked.
"In Station Cottages, just before you come to the prison woods,
sir."
"Run over, then, and say I'll call in half an hour."
"There!" Will grinned. "I told 'em you'd never keep out of it!"
He was gone and Brendon read the letter again, studied its neat
caligraphy, and observed that a tear had blotted the middle of the
sheet. Once more he said "damn" to himself, dropped his fishing
basket and rod, turned up the collar of his mackintosh, and walked
to the police station, where he heard a little of the matter in hand
from a constable and then asked for permission to use the telephone.


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