Saying which, he contrived to catch the roll of tobacco leaf, lit a fusee on the sole of his boot, and then threw himself back, but only--as there came a smart rap at the door--to yell out impatiently-- "Come in!" The door was opened, and a smart-looking maid brought in a letter, which was evidently for the master of the chambers; but as his hands were locked together behind his reclining head, and the exertion of loosening them seemed to be more than he cared to encounter, Harry took the missive from the girl, and glanced at the superscription. "For you," he said, as the girl retired. "'Taint from the governor, I can see at this distance," said Lionel. "Open it and see what's inside, there's a good fellow. Tailor's bill I'll be bound." "No," said Harry, turning the note over uneasily; "it is evidently a lady's hand." "Lady's hand! Gammon! Who'd write to me?" "Lady's hand--evidently French," continued Harry, and then he read from the envelope-- "To Mr--Mr L.R., 70 Regent Street." "Why, it's an answer to the advertisement," cried Lionel, bursting into a loud laugh. "Read it out, old boy." Harry seemed as if he were attracted by the delicacy of the handwriting; for, instead of tearing open the missive, he took out a penknife and cut the paper, heedless of Lionel Redgrave's sneering laugh. "What a model of care you are, Harry," he exclaimed; "fold your clothes up every night when you go to bed, I'll swear." Harry smiled, and then read aloud:-- "Honoured Sir,--Seeing your advertisement in to-day's _Times_, I believe I know a gentleman who was followed by a dog answering the description of your bull-tarrier; so I will do myself the honour of waiting upon you this evening, at eight o'clock.--Your obedient servant, "Fancy." "Your obedient servant," repeated Lionel. "`To command' scratched out," said Harry. "That's a rum sort of letter to come in a lady's hand, and in French style--isn't it? Is it spelt right?" "Perfectly, and the writing is exquisite." "Dog-stealing cad safe, and he has got some one to write for him." "He'll be here directly, if he keeps his appointment," said Harry, referring to his watch; "it only wants a few minutes to eight. What shall you do? See Mr Fancy, or hand him over to the police?" "See him, of course! What's the good of handing him over to the police? Cost me just as much money, and I should not get my dog." Harry shrugged his shoulders, while Lionel lay back a little farther on his lounge, so that he could hold up and admire the set of his close, groomy-looking, drab trousers. "Not a bad fit, are they, Hal?" he said, after a pause. "Excellent for a stable-helper," was the sarcastic reply. "H'm! Perhaps so. But they are like the real thing, though, ain't they? Bilstob's an out-and-outer for taking up an idea, if you give it him." "Stably ideas, I suppose," said Harry.