“My darling,” Charlie concluded, “I am certain there must be something wrong, or you would never have left me without a line all these months. I heard from D’Silva the other day that that fellow Karalampi had been at the Residency a good deal lately, and I should not wonder if he had something to do with it. I do entreat you not on any account to trust him in the very smallest matter. The man is capable of anything. I am consumed with anxiety about you. I was talking yesterday about going out at once to see you and find out what was the matter, but your father said I should only bring you into trouble, and entreated me not to think of such a thing. Dearest, you know I would do anything rather than get you into trouble; but if I can be of the very smallest help or use to you, let me have a wire, and I will start at an hour’s notice. Only write, my darling, or I shall go mad.” Cecil dropped the letter with a groan, which attracted the attention of Sir Dugald, who had considerately been discussing his own letters with Lady Haigh while she read it. “Anything wrong, Miss Anstruther?” he asked, kindly. “Our letters!” groaned Cecil, “his and mine. Neither of us has ever received one of them, and we have both written once a-week.” “This is serious indeed,” said Sir Dugald. “About sixty letters altogether, and spread over more than six months! Well, it is quite evident what has happened, though I confess I should scarcely have thought the game worth the candle in this case. They have been tampering with the mail-bags again.” “Tampering--who?” cried Cecil. “Interested parties, I presume,” said Sir Dugald, drily. “Some post-office clerk who is learning English and likes to study it by means of other people’s letters, possibly, but I should scarcely think so. It’s an old trick, and they have tried it several times here, but not just lately.” “But can you get the letters back?” asked Cecil. “Scarcely, I’m afraid. They would be much too compromising to be allowed to remain in the thief’s possession. No; but we may be able to stop the robberies in future. I will communicate with Constantinople at once, and set the Embassy to work. Shall we make the abstraction of your love-letters a _casus belli_, Miss Anstruther?” “It isn’t a laughing matter to me,” said Cecil, dolefully. “No, nor to poor Egerton either,” said Sir Dugald. “It was a most happy thing that he thought of writing to you under cover to me, or we might never have found out how the trick was worked. You see they have simply suppressed all Egerton’s letters to you, and all yours directed to him. Your home letters have arrived as usual, have they not? I thought so. Well, suppose you set Egerton’s mind at rest by telegraphing him a Christmas message at once. I think I can guarantee that it won’t go astray from here.”