“Yes, you’ve got everything, my dear Mary,” he said wearily. “And, Fabe, dear, such a curious thing happened about that paper. When I took it from under my pillow this morning what do you think? All the writing had disappeared! You could have knocked me down with a feather.” He stirred uneasily in his chair. “That is most extraordinary,” he found words to say. “I was so upset about it that I took it to a gentleman friend of mine, who’s in the conjuring business. You’ve probably seen him: he takes rabbits out of paper bags, and he says that you must have used invisible ink, and he showed me how to bring the writing back and make it permanent.” “And did you?” asked Gilder hollowly. “Why, of course I did, dear. You just squeeze a lemon, rub it over the paper and hold it in front of the fire.” Gilder’s head reeled. All he could say was “Oh!” This was awkward--very awkward; but it was a difficulty that might easily be surmounted. At the worst he could buy her off for a thousand, and the promise of marriage was contingent.… Still it was a very unpleasant document to be produced even in a breach of promise case; for, strong in the faith of the invisible quality of his ink, he had made an agreement which was very damaging to himself. “Are you going to stay with the Gwyns?” “I think so, dear.” The hesitation was assumed, he knew; she had already made up her mind. “I really think that I ought to go. Arthur, of course, is a very old friend, and although he’s nothing to me, any more than the dirt beneath my feet, and I should no more think of throwing myself at his head than I should of flying to the moon--well, I feel I ought to go.” “Then, for heaven’s sake, go!” he said curtly, and she murmured her thanks, and would have lingered on, but he accompanied her to the door and opened it very pointedly. He gathered that, whilst she held him to his promise, she had not altogether lost hope of bringing Arthur Gwyn to heel. She had hardly left the place before a telegraph boy arrived. Gilder was expecting a wire from one of his bookmaking businesses, now in process of liquidation, since their only client had passed from active operations. The telegram was addressed from a village five miles from Chelfordbury and ran: Get down here as fast as you can. Big news for you. It was signed “T.” Would Thomas talk? And what had he to say? XXXIII The groom who brought Dick Alford’s horse to the door had a report to make. “That fellow was seen last night, sir.” “Which fellow is this?” asked Dick, as he swung into the saddle. “The Black Abbot, sir. Gill, the gamekeeper up at Long Meadow Cottage, saw him at four o’clock this morning walking through the long meadow. By the time Gill got his gun he’d vanished.” “And what was the Black Abbot doing in the Long Meadow?” asked Dick sardonically. “Picking buttercups?”