“My dear Joyce,” he said, “whatever brings you here?” “I had a telegram about the robbery,” she said; and then for the first time he realized that he had not troubled to notify the only person who was really affected by the burglary. “Who wired you?” “The police.” Still he was puzzled. “But you couldn’t have had the wire till eleven,” he said, “how on earth did you get here?” She smiled rather quietly. “I did rather an adventurous thing,” she replied. “There is an aeroplane service between Falmouth and London.” He could only stare at her. “That was very enterprising of you, Joyce.” “Tell me,” she said, “did you also wire about this robbery?” “I’ve been waiting till I got the fullest details before I notified you,” said Lord Claythorpe easily. “You see, my dear girl, I have no wish to worry or frighten you, and possibly there was some chance that this wretched woman would return the securities, or at any rate give me a chance of redeeming them.” She nodded. “I see,” she said. “Then I can do nothing?” He shook his head. “Absolutely nothing.” She pursed her lips irresolutely. “Can I write a letter?” she asked. “Sit down, sit down, my dear child,” he fussed. “You’ll find paper and envelopes in this case.” * * * * * At eleven o’clock that night, South Western District Post Office No. 2 was a scene of animation. Postal vans, horse vans and motors were pulled up level with the big platform which led from the sorting room, and a dozen porters were engaged in handling mail bags for various destinations. The vans conveying local London mails had been despatched to the various district offices, the last to leave being a small one-horse van carrying the foreign mails to the G.P.O. It was driven by a middle-aged attendant named Carter, and pulled out of the yard at a quarter to twelve. The weather was a repetition of that which had been experienced on the previous night. The south-wester was still blowing, the rain was coming down in gusty squalls, and the driver, muffled up to the chin, whipped up his horse to face the blast. His way led through the most deserted part of London’s West End--more deserted than usual on this stormy night. One of the main streets through which he had to pass was “up,” being in the hands of the road repairers, and he turned into a side street to make a detour which would bring him clear of the obstruction. He observed, as he again turned his horse into the narrow thoroughfare running parallel with the main road, that the street lamps were extinguished, and put this down to the storm. He was in the blackest patch of the road, when a red lamp flashed right ahead of him, and he pulled his horse back on its haunches. “What’s the trouble?” he said leaning down and addressing the figure that held the lamp.