Bidding him good-night, I mounted the steps of my house, and was just getting out my latch-key when a telegraph-boy suddenly rode up on a bicycle and jumped off in the gutter outside. He came up the steps, pulling out a wire from his bag. "Is that for me?" I asked. "Mr. Stuart Northcote?" "Yes, sir." I took it from him, and, tearing open the envelope, held up the message to the light of the street lamp. It consisted of seven words: "Get rid of your new butler immediately." I stared at it for a moment, and then laughed. "Thanks," I said; "there's no answer." CHAPTER VIII I rather like surprises; but, as my old friend Jack Costello used to say, "You can have too dern much of a good thing." With the telegram in my hand I went inside the house, shutting the door behind me. The light was full on in the hall, and sitting on the edge of the table I again read through the curt message: "Get rid of your new butler immediately." It had been sent off from Charing Cross at 9.58, and the sender, whoever he might be, was evidently a person of direct and frugal mind. The whole wire came to exactly twelve words, while for crispness of style its phrasing certainly left little to be desired. I stared at it with mingled feelings of doubt, annoyance, and amusement. If the warning was genuine, and my new butler was really lurking behind the coal-scuttle with a dagger in his coat-tail pocket, who the dickens had taken the trouble to put me on my guard? It must have been someone acquainted with my movements that morning; but, so far as I knew, Maurice was the only person who answered that description. I couldn't exactly see Maurice wading in with a kindly caution; and in any case, if he had wanted to give me the tip, why couldn't he have done so when he had been with me? On the whole, I was more inclined to think that the wire was an attempt at bluff. It might be that my prompt engagement of another trustworthy servant in place of Milford had interfered with my friends' plans, and that they were hoping to frighten me into clearing him out. Anyhow, there was obviously only one course to pursue, and that was to interview the gentleman myself without delay, and see what I thought of him. So, crossing to the fireplace, I rang the bell, and took up a dignified but alert attitude on the hearth-rug. As far as promptness was concerned, Francis left nothing to be desired. Thirty seconds could hardly have elapsed before he had entered the hall, and was standing before me with a deferential bow of greeting. I looked at him keenly. He was a tall, slim fellow of about thirty-five, with thick black hair and a rather sallow face. "Well, I see you've arrived all right, Francis," I observed. He again inclined his head. "Yes, sir. I came round with Mr. Seagrave about three o'clock. He gave the cook your card, sir." "Have you seen Milford?" I asked. "Yes, sir. I had a short conversation with him." "How is he?"