His coat lay over the back of a chair, and two unopened letters had slipped from a pocket to the floor. They were those he had received from the alert “Awthur” in the Temple, left unopened in the hurry of his departure from town, and until now entirely forgotten. He picked them up with no great interest. He knew from the envelope what one would be about. It was a regimental notice from the headquarters of the “Devil’s Own” in Lincoln’s Inn. Until lately he had been a keen volunteer officer, but the systematic snubs administered by the War Office to the citizen soldiery had greatly discouraged him and a great many others. He opened the other letter mechanically and with a morning yawn. But what he read--typewritten on half a sheet of thin quarto paper--instantly fixed his attention. He stood up, stared at the words, and read them again: “_Give up the law (if you value your skin). It will soon be a dangerous trade._” [Illustration] There was no date. The impression, which took the place of a signature, corresponded with that produced by the familiar seals of public companies. It was in the form of a disc, and had the outline of a spider in the centre. Was this some silly practical joke, or could it be a genuine and malignant threat? But for what Sir John Westwood had told him on the previous evening, he would have concluded unhesitatingly in favour of the first theory. But now he pondered. After a solitary breakfast in the coffee-room, and pondering still, he waited about the hotel, hoping to see Aldwyth, but she was unable to leave her father’s side. When he came out on to the Leas, the Folkestone Church Parade had already begun. Here, among the crowd in the sunshine, a serious reading of the threatening letter seemed impossible.