Having finished the last letter Abel Death descended from his stool to stretch and refresh himself. From the pocket of a threadbare coat which hung upon a nail he took a paper containing a couple of sandwiches, and cast a longing look at the bottles of wine, a thirsty movement of his lips betokening the nature of his thoughts. But he did not venture to lay his hand upon them, knowing full well that strict account was kept, and that if he appropriated but a single bottle the offence would be detected the moment his employer entered; so he took his fate in his hands by extracting from his coat a twisted paper of tea and another twisted paper of brown sugar which he emptied into a teapot. A very small fire was burning, and he stood and watched the boiling of a tiny kettle of water. As he poured the water into the teapot he heard a knock at the street door, which he did not take the trouble to answer. "A trap," he muttered, pouring the tea into a chipped cup. "No, no, Mr. Boyd. You don't get me to open the door for you." He suspected a ruse. He had received instructions not to answer a knock, nor to admit any person into the house during Mr. Boyd's absence, and the conditions of his engagement were strict and onerous, the most trifling transgression of the rules laid down being visited with a fine. When, therefore, the knock was repeated a second time he shook his head with a smile, and proceeded with his scanty meal. It did not take him long to get to the end of it; and presently, when he heard the opening and the shutting of the street door, followed by steps on the stairs, he mounted to his stool, and bent his head over the books. "Is that you, Mr. Death?" He almost fell off his stool, for it was not the voice he expected to hear. A young man of gentlemanly appearance confronted him with an ingenuous, open countenance; with an honest eye and a graceful manner. In the teeth of these advantages there was an expression of anxiety on his face which denoted that his errand was one upon which grave issues depended. "You, Mr. Reginald!" exclaimed Abel Death, staring open mouthed at the visitor. "As you see, Mr. Death," replied Mr. Reginald. "You are still in the old place." "Yes, Mr. Reginald, yes, still in the old place." Mr. Reginald's eyes travelled round the room. "Where's my father?" he asked. Abel Death answered in Irish fashion. "How did you get in?" Mr. Reginald held up a key. "You don't mean to say----" stammered Abel Death. "That I stole it?" said Mr. Reginald. "No. It is the old key which I took away with me when I left this house----" "For ever," interposed Abel Death. "Not exactly, or I should not be here now." "That is what he told me." "That is what he told _me_." "His word is law in this house, Mr. Reginald." "We will not discuss the subject. I ask you again, where is my father?" "Out." "When will he be back?" "I don't know--I can't tell you. He has his ways. He likes to leave people in uncertainty."