It was this which Tom Chandler now related to his master and to Mr. Preen. By dint of exercising his own memory and referring to his day-book, Mr. Paul was enabled to say that the letters that past afternoon were four in number, and to state from whom they came. There was no letter amongst them from Mr. Preen; none at all from Duck Brook. So there it was: the letter seemed to have mysteriously vanished; either out of the post bag despatched by Mrs. Sym, or else after its arrival at Islip. The latter was of course the more probable; since, as Dame Sym had herself remarked, once a letter was shut up in the bag, there it must remain; it could not vanish from it. But, assuming this to be the case, how and where had it vanished? From the Islip post-office? Or from the postman's hands when carrying it out for delivery? Or from Mr. Paul's front room? They were yet speaking when Dale the postman walked in. He came to say that he had been exercising his mind upon the afternoons of the past week and could now distinguish Wednesday from the others. He recalled it by remembering that it was the afternoon of the accident in the street, when a tax-cart was overturned and the driver had broken his arm; and he could positively say that he had that afternoon delivered the letters to Mr. Chandler himself. "Yes, yes, we remember all that ourselves, Dale," returned Mr. Paul, somewhat testily. "The thing we want you to remember is, whether you observed amidst the letters one with a large red seal." Dale shook his head. "No, sir, I did not. The letters lay one upon another, address upwards, and I took no particular notice of them. There were four or five of them, I should think." "Four," corrected the lawyer. "Well, that's all, Dale, for the present. The letter is lost, and we must consider what to do in the matter." Yes, it was all very well to say that to Dale, but what _could_ they do? How set about it? To begin with, Preen did not know the number of the note, but supposed he might get it from Mr. Todhetley. He stayed so long in discussion with the lawyer, that his son, waiting in the gig outside, grew tired and the horse impatient. Oliver was almost ready to die of weariness, when an acquaintance of his came out of the Bell. Fred Scott; a dashing young fellow, who had more money than brains. "Get up," said Oliver. And Scott got into the gig. They were driving slowly about and talking fast, when two young ladies came into view at the end of the street. Oliver threw the reins to his friend, got out in a trice and met them. No need to say that one of them was Emma Paul. "I beg your pardon," said Oliver to her, lifting his hat from his suddenly flushed face, as he shook hands with both of them. "I left two books at your house yesterday: did you get them? The servant said you were out."