Jumping out, I thrust my feet into a pair of slippers that lay on the white sheepskin rug, and, crossing the room, unlocked the door. I expected to find Milford, but in place of that obliging retainer I was confronted by a pleasant-looking girl, neatly dressed in a print costume and cap. She was carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some letters on it. "Oh, come in," I said, seeing that she was hesitating. Then, kicking off my slippers, I clambered back into bed. She came across and laid the tray down on the table beside me. "I have brought you up your tea, sir," she said. "Mr. Milford is not at all well this morning." "Oh!" I replied. "I'm sorry for that. What's the matter with him? He was all right last night." She shook her head. "I don't know, sir; but he seems very poorly." "Is he in pain?" I asked. "Yes, sir. He seems to be suffering a great deal." "Well, you'd better send for the doctor at once," I said, pouring myself out some tea. This was distinctly awkward. I certainly didn't want to be deprived of the services of the one person Northcote had told me I could trust. "Shall I send for Dr. Ritchie, sir?" asked the maid. I nodded. "Ask him to come round as soon as he can. I'll look in and see Milford after breakfast." The girl finished her various duties in the room, and then withdrew. When she had gone I sat up in bed and began to examine the small pile of letters which lay on the tray. Most of them were obviously bills and circulars, but one which bore a crest on the back of the envelope seemed of more importance. I tore it open. "105 BELGRAVE SQUARE, S.W. "MY DEAR NORTHCOTE,--I had an interview yesterday with Rosedale, and as far as I can see, everything is plain sailing. Rosedale suggests the first week in October for launching the Company. There are one or two matters still I should like to discuss with you, but we shall have an opportunity on Wednesday night. "By the way, I've taken your advice and bought the _Seagull_. Morton wanted a devilish stiff price for her, but he was ready to take something on account. He'll have to wait for the rest till the Company's out!--Yours sincerely, SANGATTE." When I came to the ill-written, sprawling signature, I whistled gently to myself. Stranger as I was to England, I knew Lord Sangatte very well indeed by reputation. And a pretty unsavoury reputation it was, too. I reached out for Northcote's notebook, which I had taken out of my pocket the night before, and turned up his engagements for Wednesday. There were two or three cryptic references to appointments in the morning and afternoon, and then, scribbled in at the end in pencil, "Sangatte's dance." "I shall certainly be there," I said to myself complacently.