“Just wanted to give him this--something I promised him.” This was an envelope, lilac in colour and scent, and Hash, taking it and gazing upon it as he might have gazed upon an adder nestling in his palm, made a disturbing discovery. “There’s something inside this.” “Of course there is. If there wasn’t, what ’ud I be giving it him for?” Hash’s fingers kneaded the envelope restlessly. “What you writing to him about?” “Never mind.” “There’s something else inside this ’ere envelope besides a letter. There’s something that sort of crinkles when you squeeze it.” “Just a little present I promised to give him.” A monstrous suspicion flamed in Hash Todhunter’s mind. It seemed inconceivable, and yet---- He tore open the envelope and found his suspicion fulfilled. Between his fingers there dangled a lock of tow-coloured hair. “When you’ve finished opening other people’s letters----” said Claire. She looked at him, hopefully at first, and then with a growing despair. For Hash’s face was wooden and expressionless. “I’m glad,” said Hash huskily at length. “I been worried, but now I’m not worried. I been worried because I been worrying about you and me not being suited to one another and ’aving acted ’asty; but now I’m not worried, because I see there’s another feller you’re fond of, so the worry about what was to be done and everything don’t worry me no more. He’s in the kitchen,” said Hash in a gentle rumble. “I’ll give him this and explain ’ow it come to be opened in error.” Nothing could have exceeded the dignity of his manner, but there are moments when women chafe at masculine dignity. “Aren’t you going to knock his head off?” demanded Claire distractedly. “Me?” said Hash, looking as nearly as he could like the picture of Saint Sebastian in the Louvre. “Me? Why should I knock the pore feller’s ’ead off? I’m glad. Because I was worried, and now I’m not worried--see what I mean?” Before Claire’s horrified eyes and through a world that rocked and danced, he strode toward the kitchen of Mon Repos, bearing the envelope daintily between finger and thumb. He seemed calm and at peace. He looked as if he might be humming. Inside the kitchen, however, his manner changed. Chimp Twist, glancing up from his solitaire, observed in the doorway, staring down at him, a face that seemed to his excited imagination to have been equipped with searchlights instead of eyes. Beneath these searchlights was a mouth that appeared to be gnashing its teeth. And from this mouth, in a brief interval of gnashing, proceeded dreadful words. The first that can be printed were the words “Put ’em up!” Mr. Twist, rising, slid like an eel to the other side of the table. “What’s the matter?” he demanded in considerable agitation. “I’ll show you what’s the matter,” said Hash, after another verbal interlude which no compositor would be allowed by his union to set up. “Come out from behind that table like a man and put your ’ands up!” Mr. Twist rejected this invitation.