A thick-set man of middle age, heavily moustached, but not unpleasantly featured, in dark tweeds and bowler hat, said— “You are Miss Kitty Carstairs.” Before she could answer, he was standing beside her and the door was closed. “I have something to say to you, Miss Carstairs,” he proceeded in a quiet voice. “I think you ought to sit down to hear it.” For some seconds the girl was incapable of speech and action. But her mind was working, and it perceived that she gained no advantage by remaining in the confined space of the little passage. In silence she led the way to the sitting-room. “Who are you and what do you want with me?” she managed to say, taking her stand with the table between them. She began to suspect that he was a messenger from Symington, but there was something “decent” about his face that reassured her. His reply was certainly unexpected. “I am a detective, and I hold a warrant for your arrest. I have to warn you that anything you may say now may be used against you later.” Kitty went white, but it was with anger. “Who,” she demanded at last, “has dared to do such a thing? Who desires my arrest?” “The warrant is issued at the instance of the Postmaster-General—” “Ah! . . . I see! I suppose—” “Miss Carstairs. I warn you again—” “Does all this mean that I have got to go with you—now—to the police office?” To herself she was saying: “Don’t be a coward! You’ve nothing to be afraid of.” “It is my duty to take you there,” the man answered, “and I hope you will not make it harder for me than you can help.” His respectful tone stayed the sinking of her heart. “Can’t I send a message to a friend?” she asked. “You might leave a short note. I—I think,” he said almost nervously, “I can allow you five minutes—not more—to write it and put a few things together.” He wiped his forehead, though the window was open and the room cool. “Of course,” he went on quickly, noticing her look of dismay, “you may not be detained long. No doubt your friends will arrange for bail. But now—please—I must ask you to make haste.” “Will you tell me—” she began. “I can answer no more questions.” Apparently there was nothing for it but to submit. She sat down, scribbled the brief note that we have seen, and rose. “I am going to my room.” He followed her as far as the outer door, where he mounted guard, as it were. Within five minutes she rejoined him, dressed for out of doors, a small travelling bag in her hand. “Let me get it over,” she said. “You are a brave young lady,” he remarked. “Allow me.” He relieved her of the bag. “A very brave young lady.” “I’ve done nothing to make me afraid.” With his fingers on the door handle, he said— “Will you give me your word to—to come with me quietly?” Her head went up. “Of course!” He opened the door and stood aside for her to pass out. Now there was no doubt about his nervousness; he was paler than she.