“Well, just look at it,” Vyse persisted, still bent above the letters. “I’ve been studying them carefully--those that have come within the last two or three weeks--and there’s a queer likeness in the writing of some of them. The _g_‘s are all like corkscrews. And the same phrases keep recurring--the Ann Arbor news-agent uses the same expressions as the President of the Girls’ College at Euphorbia, Maine.” Betton laughed. “Aren’t the critics always groaning over the shrinkage of the national vocabulary? Of course we all use the same expressions.” “Yes,” said Vyse obstinately. “But how about using the same _g_‘s?” Betton laughed again, but Vyse continued without heeding him: “Look here, Betton--could Strett have written them?” “Strett?” Betton roared. “_ Strett?_” He threw himself into his arm-chair to shake out his mirth at greater ease. “I’ll tell you why. Strett always posts all my answers. He comes in for them every day before I leave. He posted the letter to the misunderstood party--the letter from _you_ that the Dead Letter Office didn’t return. _I_ posted my own letter to her; and that came back.” A measurable silence followed the emission of this ingenious conjecture; then Betton observed with gentle irony: “Extremely neat. And of course it’s no business of yours to supply any valid motive for this remarkable attention on my valet’s part.” Vyse cast on him a slanting glance. “If you’ve found that human conduct’s generally based on valid motives--!” “Well, outside of mad-houses it’s supposed to be not quite incalculable.” Vyse had an odd smile under his thin moustache. “Every house is a mad-house at some time or another.” Betton rose with a careless shake of the shoulders. “This one will be if I talk to you much longer,” he said, moving away with a laugh. IV BETTON did not for a moment believe that Vyse suspected the valet of having written the letters. “Why the devil don’t he say out what he thinks? He was always a tortuous chap,” he grumbled inwardly. The sense of being held under the lens of Vyse’s mute scrutiny became more and more exasperating. Betton, by this time, had squared his shoulders to the fact that “Abundance” was a failure with the public: a confessed and glaring failure. The press told him so openly, and his friends emphasized the fact by their circumlocutions and evasions. Betton minded it a good deal more than he had expected, but not nearly as much as he minded Vyse’s knowing it. That remained the central twinge in his diffused discomfort. And the problem of getting rid of his secretary once more engaged him. He had set aside all sentimental pretexts for retaining Vyse; but a practical argument replaced them. “If I ship him now he’ll think it’s because I’m ashamed to have him see that I’m not getting any more letters.”