The man’s attitude was deferential in the extreme. His eyes were discreetly dropped, and he seemed unaware of the confusion his appearance had caused. “I had a brother that was a sea-faring man, sir,” he was saying. “Sailed out of Lunnon in the steamship _Orkney_ for St. Petersburg, hard on two years ago, sir. She was never heard from again. Lost at sea somewheres, sir. The letter may be from him, sir. I told him to write me in your care, sir.” Miss Fitzhugh did not speak, and Caruth hesitated, but only for a moment. Slowly he opened the letter and glanced at the top and bottom of the scrawl; mechanically he refolded it and slipped it back into its envelope. “You’ve hit it, Wilkins,” he declared. “The letter does begin ‘Dear Jim’ and does end ‘Your brother, Bill.’ Your claim seems to be clear.” He handed the letter to the man. As the latter took it, the woman came out of her trance. “Wilkins!” she called sharply. “Yes, madam.” The valet turned toward her, subservient as ever. Without taking her eyes from him, Miss Fitzhugh sank into her chair. “So, Wilkins,” she said slowly, “you have been listening?” “Yes, madam.” There was no defiance nor disrespect in the valet’s tones, nor was there any apology. He simply admitted the undeniable fact, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “It is a vice of servants the world over. When one subordinates himself to the will of another, he seems to lose many of the manly virtues. If you have been listening, Wilkins, you know that I put a high value on that letter. It seems that it is yours. Well, I will buy it from you--unread. What is your price?” Slowly the man shook his head. “I would rather not sell it, madam,” he answered. “Nonsense! Of course you will sell it.” The woman spoke imperiously, but the valet did not change his submissive yet dogged bearing. “I have not much money with me, but I will give you five hundred dollars cash for it.” Again Wilkins shook his head. “I can’t consider it, madam,” he repeated. Miss Fitzhugh opened the bag that swung from her belt and threw a roll of bills on the table. “Count that for me, please, Mr. Caruth,” she ordered. “I am not quick at American money.” Caruth obeyed in silence. Though Wilkins was clearly within his rights, he found himself regarding the man with rising anger, and would have intervened if it had seemed possible for him to do so. But the situation for the time being, at least, was dearly beyond his control. “Eleven hundred and fifty-one dollars,” he announced. “It is all I have. Take it and give me the letter.” Miss Fitzhugh was again addressing the valet. For the third time Wilkins shook his head. “No!” he repeated doggedly. Undisturbed, the woman turned to Caruth. “Lend me a thousand dollars,” she requested.