Morrice nodded his head and strode into the hall, where he found standing a sallow-faced young fellow, quite a youth, with a tall footman mounting guard over him, as it were, on the look-out for felonious attempts. “What is it you’re wanting, my man?” he asked roughly. He did not, any more than his servant, like the appearance of the fellow, who seemed a furtive kind of creature with a shifty expression. The furtive one explained hesitatingly in a strong cockney accent: “A letter for Mrs. Morrice, sir. I was to be sure and give it into no hands but her own.” Something very suspicious about this, certainly. Morrice thought a moment, pondering as to the best way to proceed with this rather unprepossessing specimen of humanity. He had a common and unintelligent kind of face, but he looked as if he possessed a fair share of low cunning. A week ago Morrice would have thought nothing of such an incident; he would have told the man to come later when his wife would have returned. But recent events had developed certain faculties and made him anxious to probe everything to the bottom, to scent mystery in every trifling act. “Who sent you with the letter, and gave you such precise instructions, my man?” The answer came back: “Mrs. Macdonald, sir.” Morrice’s brows contracted. He was as sure as he could be of anything that the man was telling a lie. “Mrs. Macdonald, eh? Where does she live?” was the next question. This time the answer did not come as readily; there was a perceptible hesitation. Morrice guessed the reason as rapidly as Lane himself would have done. The sender of the letter had primed the messenger with a false address. Out of loyalty to his employer, he had been cudgelling his rather slow brains to invent one. “Number 16 Belle-Vue Mansions, Hogarth Road, Putney,” he said, speaking after that slight hesitation with a certain glibness that was likely to carry conviction. Morrice did not know of any woman of the name of Macdonald amongst his wife’s acquaintances. Still, that might mean nothing; it might be a begging letter which the writer had taken these unusual means of getting to her. “Let me have a look at the envelope,” demanded Morrice. The shabby, furtive-looking young fellow began to appear a bit uneasy, with the dictatorial master of the house regarding him with anything but a favourable eye, the young girl standing in the background who seemed no more friendly, and the tall footman standing before the door, barring a sudden exit. “Beg pardon, sir, but my orders was most precise to only give it into the hands of the lady herself.” Morrice saw that he must change his tactics. He took from his pocket a couple of treasury-notes which made a pleasant crackle as he flourished them before the youth’s face.