“I am quite at a loss for your meaning, sir,” he said. “For me I can see no connection, not in the least.” “You will recall,” said Gilead, “that Mr Valkenburg’s servant gave evidence at the trial--evidence damning to the prisoner. Her name was Jennett, and spelt in this peculiar way.” “Yes?” Mr Hamlin’s voice and manner expressed some obvious bewilderment. “I may say,” continued Gilead, “in this _very_ peculiar, and perhaps unique way.” “Ah! That is so? And what then, Mr Balm?” What then, in very truth? All in one amazed instant Gilead seemed to recognize the preposterous character of his mission. Even supposing the Jennett of the trial _were_ the Jennett of the advertisement, _what then_? Exactly. A sudden consciousness of absurdity bubbled up in him--an inclination to hysterical laughter. “Upon my word I don’t know,” he said, with a little gasp. A sense of reciprocal humour seemed to tickle the dealer. His cheeks rounded, his teeth showed dazzlingly. “O, this is too ridiculous!” said Gilead, steadying himself. “I don’t know why I’m here; I don’t know what to say next. There’s nothing for it now but unqualified frankness.” He then explained to the dealer the rather forlorn promise which had been extracted from him by his recent visitor, and the shadowy justification it had seemed to possess in the advertisement. “And that justification is gone somehow,” he said. “I don’t know what’s become of it. There must be a hole in my mind, and it’s slipped through; and now only a sense of empty impertinence remains.” He was winningly apologetic. Mr Hamlin smiled and nodded at him, staring in his face, but he hardly spoke a word in reply. Finally, Gilead, turning to go, paused to put a question. “I feel,” he said, “that I owe Mr Valkenburg a like explanation; but I understand that he has left his house?” “Yes, yes,” said the dealer. “He is gone, O, yes!--to Kimberley. He would be much amused.” “He is a friend of yours? And no doubt a gentleman of the highest reputation. I don’t know how to excuse my visit; it was unpardonable.” “I do not understand,” answered the other. “You have said nothing to give offence. For Valkenburg, he would appreciate your excellent intentions as I do, and, were he at home, would give you, I am sure, all the information you desire. That Lamb’s Agency has the claim to much privilege, Mr Balm.” There seemed no conscious irony in his voice or in his fixed smile. “It is good of you to put it in that way,” said Gilead. “I can only repeat my apologies. Good morning, Mr Hamlin.” “Good-morning,” answered the dealer, without moving from where he stood. As Gilead ran down the stairs he met a telegraph boy coming up. In his hurry he collided with the youth and almost bowled him over. “That illustrates my fatuity,” he thought, as he went on his way. “In trying to put one Postal official on his legs I knock down another.”