Perhaps he was exaggerating the seriousness of the situation, he thought. Putting his head out of the window, he directed the driver to take him to Regency Mansions. He had forgotten his key; had to ring the bell, and the maid who opened the door handed him the post, which had arrived a few minutes before. He examined the three letters carefully: none was from Leslie. But at the moment he was too occupied with the happenings at Chelfordbury to be disappointed. And then came a thunderbolt. “Mr. Arthur Gwyn is waiting for you in the library,” said the girl. “Mr. Gwyn!” he said in astonishment. “When did he come?” “Ten minutes ago, sir.” “Oh!” said Gilder blankly. Had she sent her brother instead of a letter? Had she told him… well, it was a situation that had to be faced. He walked carelessly into the little library and found Arthur Gwyn sitting in one of the easiest chairs, a book in his hand, a half-smoked cigar between his teeth. “Good-morning, Gilder.” His voice was cheerful and almost amiable, and for a moment Mr. Gilder’s heart leapt. This was a friendly ambassador sent by the girl to make the necessary arrangements. “I think we’d better forget all that’s passed,” said Arthur. “We both lost our temper, and there’s no sense in keeping the old trouble alive. You don’t mind my smoking?” He replaced the book he had taken from one of the shelves, dusted his knees carefully, and then laughed. “You’re thinking of marrying Leslie, I understand?” Gilder nodded, watching his visitor closely. “Expecting a letter from her? Well, I’m afraid you won’t get it.” “Why not?” asked the other, with a sudden tightening at his heart. “Because friend Thomas, who spent the evening in wholesale robbery--incidentally, he stole a very ancient dagger from my hall, a silver teapot, and a few other etceteras--added to his infamy by attempting to rob a letter box. He didn’t succeed in opening the box, but he put the lock out of order.” Gilder breathed again. “So there was no collection, eh?” he said huskily. “Well, that is rather a relief.” There was a quizzical smile in Arthur Gwyn’s eyes; the discolouration on the left cheek had faded to a pale green. “I understand you’re going to help me?” “I am going to get you out of your trouble, yes.” “It occurred to me”--Arthur leaned sideways and very carefully dusted the ash of his cigar into a silver tray on the library table--“it occurred to me that you might care to give me proof and evidence of your good feeling.” “I don’t understand you,” said Gilder. Arthur hesitated.