The respectable-looking waiter paused before replying, searching no doubt in the caverns of his retentive memory. “No, sir, absolutely nothing. I think there did come a report that Mr. Archibald married and had children, or at any rate a child. But I cannot be positive. You see, interest in them died out very quickly after the old man’s death, and we are a very stay-at-home lot of folk about here, only odds and ends of news, as it were, get to us at long intervals.” This conversation took place about a couple of days before the arrival of Lane’s letter, and Sellars was of course assuming the accuracy of the history of the Australian brother as told him by his club acquaintance, who was an intimate friend of Sir George. Old Dobbs was not so sure of his facts as usual in this particular case, but he thought news had reached him of Archibald’s marriage. As far as it went it was a confirmation of what he had been told. Having heard pretty well all there was to hear about the Brookes family, Sellars was about to play his trump card on the garrulous waiter, and inquire if he had ever known a Miss Lettice Larchester. But a small incident frustrated him. He noticed that Dobbs had been rather hurrying over his narrative for the last few minutes, and had refused a second instalment of whisky which the young man pressed upon him. The reasons for his fidgetiness and indifference to alcohol were soon explained. It happened to be Saturday night, and there was always a brisk business doing at the end of the week in certain portions of the house. The hotel proper, at this dead season of the year, had practically no custom. With the exception of the “literary gentleman in search of local colour,” who so ostentatiously left his manuscript about for curious eyes to see, there was no resident. It had occurred to this honest and faithful servant of the good old school that he could render sorely needed help downstairs, and was wasting his employer’s time in pleasant but profitless conversation with this affable stranger. “You will excuse me, sir, I am sure,” he said with a little cough of embarrassment, “but Saturday night is a busy night with us, and we are short-handed downstairs. Will you forgive me if I run away now, thanking you very much for the whisky, sir,” he concluded with his customary old-fashioned courtesy. “Run away, Dobbs, by all means,” was the cheery answer. “Hope I haven’t kept you too long, but knowing Sir George just a little, I was awfully interested in all you told me.” The old man bowed, and withdrew. After all, to-morrow would do as well for Sellars to put his question. Mrs. Morrice had come from Sussex, and instinct, coupled with the association of Sir George Brookes, told him that he had fixed on just the right spot, and would be able to kill two birds with one stone as soon as he got Dobbs again into a reminiscent mood.