I was angry enough but, as I read the letter for the third time, the pitifulness of it became more apparent. I imagined Francis Strickland Morley to be the replica of the Strickland Morley whom I remembered, the useless, incompetent, inadequate son of a good-for-nothing father. No doubt the father was responsible for such a letter as this having been written. Doubtless he HAD told the boy all sorts of tales; perhaps he HAD declared himself to be the defrauded instead of the defrauder; he was quite capable of it. Possibly the youngster did believe he had a claim upon the wealthy relatives in that “uncivilized” country, America. The wealthy relatives! I thought of Captain Barnabas's last years, of Hephzibah's plucky fight against poverty, of my own lost opportunities, of the college course which I had been obliged to forego. My indignation returned. I would not go back at once to Hephzy with the letter. I would, myself, seek out the writer of that letter, and, if I found him, he and I would have a heart to heart talk which should disabuse his mind of a few illusions. We would have a full and complete understanding. I hastily made a memorandum of the address, “Care Mrs. Briggs,” thrust the letter back into the envelope, put it and my other mail into my pocket, and walked out into the main office. Holton, the clerk, looked up from his desk. Probably my feelings showed in my face, for he said: “What is it, Mr. Knowles? No bad news, I trust, sir.” “No,” I answered, shortly. “Where is ---- Street? Is it far from here?” It was rather far from there, in Camberwell, on the Surrey side of the river. I might take a bus at such a corner and change again at so and so. It sounded like a journey and I was impatient. I suggested that I might take a cab. Certainly I could do that. William, the boy, would call a cab at once. William did so and I gave the driver the address from my memoranda. Through the Strand I was whirled, across Blackfriars Bridge and on through the intricate web of avenues and streets on the Surrey side. The locality did not impress me favorably. There was an abundance of “pubs” and of fried-fish shops where “jellied eels” seemed to be a viand much in demand. ---- Street, when I reached it, was dingy and third rate. Three-storied old brick houses, with shops on their first floors, predominated. Number 218 was one of these. The signs “Lodgings” over the tarnished bell-pull and the name “Briggs” on the plate beside it proved that I had located the house from which the letter had been sent. I paid my cabman, dismissed him, and rang the bell. A slouchy maid-servant answered the ring. “Is Mr. Francis Morley in?” I asked. The maid looked at me. “Wat, sir?” she said. “Does Mr. Francis Morley live here?” I asked, raising my voice. “Is he in?” The maid's face was as wooden as the door-post. Her mouth, already open, opened still wider and she continued to stare. A step sounded in the dark hall behind her and another voice said, sharply: