George Morton, of ⸺, Redcliffe Square, was supposed by his many friends to be a retired solicitor. He was a man who lived in a comfortable and respectable way, who gave largely to charities, who was a good Church member, an affectionate father, and a kind husband. He was much respected and looked up to in the neighbourhood, and no one would suspect him of having anything to do with that disgraceful thing, an alias. Nevertheless, Long John, of the Silver School, and George Morton, of Redcliffe Square, were one and the same individual. He received Rowton’s letter in the course of the evening, and its contents by no means surprised him. The telegram, which had come early in the day, had given him quite to understand that this troublesome member of his mob or school was in a state of insurrection. Morton read the letter calmly, slipped it into his pocket, and proceeded to discuss the soup in his plate. His wife, a pretty little woman, who had not the faintest idea that her husband was other than what he represented himself to be, looked at him with the dawn of anxiety on her face. “Does anything worry you, George?” she asked. “No, nothing. Why do you ask?” he replied. He gave her a glance out of his big and beautiful eyes, and she knew at once that he did not wish to be questioned further. “Have you to go out to-night, dear?” was her next query. “Yes,” he answered; “I have just received a letter which requires immediate attention.” “Has it anything to do with the telegram which I opened in your absence?” she asked—“the telegram with the queer words, ‘death imminent.’” “I wish, Alice,” he answered, “that in future you would not open my telegrams. No, the letter has nothing whatever to do with the telegram. The latter referred to an affair on the Stock Exchange, and was a cipher.” “Oh!” she answered, looking puzzled, as he meant her to be. “Then you cannot come with me to the Norrises’ ‘At Home’?“ she said after a longer pause. “Not to-night; I must go to my club. I cannot say when I shall be in, so will take the latchkey. Don’t sit up for me.” Having finished his dinner, Morton presently went out. His wife nodded brightly to him when he bade her good-bye, and soon afterwards she went upstairs to her nursery. She kissed her children and heard them say their prayers, and then went to dress for the “At Home,” to which Morton could not accompany her. * * * * * At about the time that Long John, or Morton, received Rowton’s letter, the detective, Crossley, had an epistle of extreme interest from Jacob Short, the footman at Rowton Heights. He read it over with care and conned the last sentence with special interest.