“There’s a young fellow been hanging round outside since I got up,” said Mrs. Watson. “I saw him when I took in the milk. Very polite he was, but I told him you weren’t awake.” “Did he want to see me?” asked the astonished girl. “That’s what he said,” said Mrs. Watson grimly. “I asked him if he came from Knebworth, and he said no. If you want to see him, you can have the use of the parlour, though I don’t like young men calling on young girls. I’ve never let theatrical lodgings before, and you can’t be too careful. I’ve always had a name for respectability and I want to keep it.” Adele smiled. “I cannot imagine anything more respectable than an early morning caller, Mrs. Watson,” she said. She went downstairs and opened the door. The young man was standing on the side-walk with his back to her, but at the sound of the door opening he turned. He was good-looking and well-dressed, and his smile was quick and appealing. “I hope your landlady did not bother to wake you up? I could have waited. You are Miss Adele Leamington, aren’t you?” She nodded. “Will you come in, please?” she asked, and took him into the stuffy little front parlour, and, closing the door behind her, waited. “I am a reporter,” he said untruthfully, and her face fell. “You’ve come about Uncle Francis? Is anything really wrong? They sent a detective to see me a week ago. Have they found him?” “No, they haven’t found him,” he said carefully. “You knew him very well, of course, Miss Leamington?” She shook her head. “No, I have only seen him twice in my life. My dear father and he quarrelled before I was born, and I only saw him once after daddy died, and once before mother was taken with her fatal illness.” She heard him sigh, and sensed his relief, though why he should be relieved that her uncle was almost a stranger to her, she could not fathom. “You saw him at Chichester, though?” he said. She nodded. “Yes, I saw him. I was on my way to Goodwood Park—a whole party of us in a char-à-banc—and I saw him for a moment walking along the side-walk. He looked desperately ill and worried. He was just coming out of a stationer’s shop when I saw him; he had a newspaper under his arm and a letter in his hand.” “Where was the store?” he asked quickly. She gave him the address, and he jotted it down. “You didn’t see him again?” She shook her head. “Is anything really very badly wrong?” she asked anxiously. “I’ve often heard mother say that Uncle Francis was very extravagant, and a little unscrupulous. Has he been in trouble?” “Yes,” admitted Michael, “he has been in trouble, but nothing that you need worry about. You’re a great film actress, aren’t you?” In spite of her anxiety she laughed. “The only chance I have of being a great film actress is for you to say so in your paper.” “My what?” he asked, momentarily puzzled. “Oh yes, my newspaper, of course!” “I don’t believe you’re a reporter at all,” she said with sudden suspicion.