Mr. Bradfield, opening the envelope with clammy fingers, read the following words: “SIR,--I beg respectfully to say that I have taken your bag back to Wyngham House for you, as I am sure that you will want it when you return, as I hope you will do in the course of the day. I can undertake to say that a satisfactory settlement will be arrived at, if you should think proper to meet Mr. Richard Wryde and his lawyer, who will be there to meet you.--I am, sir, your obedient servant, “JAMES STELFOX.” Mr. Bradfield’s head swam. The events, which he had been leading so beautifully up to this moment, had turned upon him, overwhelmed him, and were now carrying him away in their rush. A few moments’ reflection convinced him that he must now go with the tide. While still looking at the note he recovered himself, and explaining hurriedly that he had made a mistake, and that it was all right, he paid his bill, walked to the station, and inquired the time of the next train to Wyngham. Mr. Bradfield had been beaten at his own game of “bluff.” For undoubtedly, as he had said to Stelfox, the case against him, strong though it was, would have taken time and money in abundance to prove. In the meanwhile, if he had not lost nerve at the last, he could have turned the tables on Stelfox by accusing that astute person of stealing his bag. But the contents of that bag were so incriminating, that he decided that any arrangement would now be better than coming into court. It was rather startling, however, for the poor man to find, on alighting at Wyngham Station, the persistent and wily Stelfox waiting on the platform to meet him. Of course, the new master saluted the old master as respectfully as ever. “I thought you would be coming by this train, sir,” said he, “so I took the liberty of telling Williams to bring the phaeton round. It’s waiting outside, sir.” Mr. Bradfield was not grateful for this attention. He nodded, strode sullenly through the station, and drove home at a rapid pace. He wanted to get the whole business over as speedily as possible. Stelfox followed in a cab. Wyngham House looked curiously different in his eyes from the mansion he had left, as he then supposed, for ever, on the previous night. And yet nothing about it was changed; it was the eye which looked upon it which had undergone a transformation. The footman who let him in knew something, perhaps, but he was careful to look as if he did not, this being an art in which all well-bred servants are proficient. But the man’s first words sent a shudder down John Bradfield’s back. “Mr. Wryde is in the drawing-room, sir.” The change of name spoke volumes to begin with. “Mr. Richard” was now “Mr. Wryde.”