For the moment nothing else mattered. Not even the danger which threatened him, the possibility of his arrest, the shame it would cast on his father and sister. The maid came into the room carrying the breakfast-tray, so he took the card to the bathroom, and, locking the door, read it there: "I arrived here about a week ago. Thought I’d let you know where I was in case you returned to town; but I’m moving on to-morrow, so if you get this write by return. Tell me how you are and if everything is going on satisfactorily. I’m anxious to know. On hearing, I’ll send you my next address." She did not sign her name or her initials. Slowly, the feeling of relief Rupert had experienced faded away. He read the card again as soon as he was seated at the breakfast-table. Her anxiety to know that all was well with him and progressing satisfactorily, caused fear to return. He told himself angrily that he was a fool, he knew his suspicions were groundless. Of course, she would not have written at all, not even on a postcard, if she had been in any way connected with the altered cheque. She would really have run away and hidden where no one could find her. And yet.... When men stole or robbed or murdered or committed any crime, they nearly always did so in the belief that their crime would remain undetected and they would escape. In this case she would be the last person anyone would suspect. No one connected with the affair knew of their friendship or of the relations which existed between them. Neither the Crichtons nor his father had ever heard of her. There was a knock on the sitting-room door, and Rupert started and hastily hid the postcard in his pocket. It was only the landlady to ask if he had everything he required and to take any orders he might have to give her for luncheon or dinner. "I shall be out all day," he replied, trying to speak in his normal voice. "Will you be staying another night or two, or will you be returning to Devonshire at once, sir?" she asked. "I expect I shall go back to-morrow." Even as he spoke he had a curious feeling that he would not return home next day. Some dreadful sub-conscious instinct warned him that he would not return home for a long time. Directly the landlady had gone he looked at the postcard again, then with unsteady hands tore it up and put it into the fire. Under normal conditions, lover-like, he would have kept it. In every little thing he did now he seemed to have some ulterior motive. He found himself criticising every action and every thought. He sipped his tea—it was half cold. He had been seated at the table for ten minutes without realising the flight of time. The bacon lay untouched on his plate. He nibbled a piece of bread, then lay back in his chair staring across the room—at nothing.