"So, so," whispered Joseph Wilmot, "this is the junior partner's letter of welcome to his chief. I'll take care of that." He replaced the letter in the pocket of the memorandum-book, and then looked at the pencil entries on the different pages. The last entry was the only memorandum that had any interest for him. It consisted of these few words— _"H.D., expected to arrive at Southampton Docks on or about the 19th inst., per steamer_ Electra; _will be met by Miss Laura D. at Portland Place."_ "Who's Laura D.?" mused the spy, as he closed the memorandum-book. "His daughter, I suppose. I remember seeing his marriage in the papers, twenty years ago. He married well, of course. Fortune made _everything_ smooth for him. He married a lady of rank. Curse him!" Joseph Wilmot sat for some time with his arms folded upon the table before him, brooding, brooding, brooding; with a sinister smile upon his lips, and an ominous light in his eyes. A dangerous man always—a dangerous man when he was loud, reckless, brutal, violent: but most of all dangerous when he was most quiet. By-and-by he took the bunch of keys from his pocket, knelt down before the portmanteau, and examined its contents. There was very little to reward his scrutiny—only a suit of clothes, a couple of clean shirts, and the necessaries of the clerk's simple toilet. The carpet-bag contained a pair of boots, a hat-brush, a night-shirt, and a faded old chintz dressing-gown. Joseph Wilmot rose from his knees after examining these things, and softly opened the door between the two rooms. There had been no change in the sick chamber. The nurse still sat by the head of the bed. She looked round at Joseph, as he opened the door. "No change, I suppose?" he said. "No, sir; none." "I am going out for a stroll, presently. I shall be in again in an hour's time." He shut the door again, but he did not go out immediately. He knelt down once more by the side of the portmanteau, and tore off the label with his brother's name upon it. He tore a similar label off the carpet-bag, taking care that no vestige of the clerk's name was left behind. When he had done this, and thrust the torn labels into his pocket, he began to walk up and down the room, softly, with his arms folded upon his breast.