He wrote a rapid note, appointing eleven o'clock the next morning for the interview at his own office. And then again paused as he was folding it; paused in deliberation. "Why not go to him?" spoke Bede Greatorex, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, as if he thought the map there could solve the query. "Yes, I will; I'll go tonight. That's safest of all." Noting down the given address, he held M. Butterby's letter and his own two answers, perfect and imperfect, over the grate lighted a match, and burnt them to ashes. There was no fire; the weather was uncertain, warm today, cold tomorrow, and the fire was sometimes let go out in a morning as soon as lighted. Evening came. And at ten minutes past seven Bede Greatorex was on the search for Mr. Butterby. "Cuff Court, Off Fleet Street." He did not know Cuff Court; and supposed that "Off Fleet Street" might indicate some turning or winding beginning in that well-known thoroughfare, and ending it was hard to say where. Bede, however, by dint of inquiry found Cuff Court at last. No. 1 had the appearance of a small private house; as in fact it was. The great Butterby generally lodged there when he came to town. The people residing in it were connections of his and accommodated him; it was, as he remarked, "convenient to places." Bede was shown upstairs to a small sitting-room. At a square table, examining some papers taken from his open pocketbook, by the light of two gas-burners over head, sat Jonas Butterby; the same thin wiry man as ever, in apparently the same black coat, plaid trousers, and buttoned-up waistcoat; with the same green observant eyes, and generally silent lips. He pushed the papers and pocketbook away into a heap when his visitor appeared, and rose to receive him. "Take a seat, sir," he said, handing a chair by the hearth opposite his own, and stirring the bit of fire in the grate. "You don't object to this, I hope: it ain't hardly fire-time yet, but a morsel looks cheery at night." "I like it," said Bede. He put his hat on a side-table, and unbuttoned a thin overcoat he wore, as he sat down, throwing it a little back from the fine white shirt front, but did not take off his lavender gloves. It had always struck Mr. Butterby that Bede Greatorex was one of the finest and most gentlemanly men he knew, invariably dressed well; it had struck him that far-off time at Helstonleigh, when they met over John Ollivera's death chair, and it struck him still. But he was looking ill, worn, anxious; and the detective, full of observation by habit, could not fail to see it. "I'm uncommon glad you've come in, Mr. Bede Greatorex. From a fresh turn some business I'm engaged on has took today, I'm not sure but I shall have to go back to Helstonleigh the first thing in the morning. Shall know by late post tonight." "Are you living in London?"