Maitland took up the envelope and tore the flap, remarking the name and address of his lawyer in its upper left-hand corner. Unfolding the inclosure, he read a date a week old, and two lines requesting him to communicate with his legal adviser upon "a matter of pressing moment." "Bother!" said Maitland. "What the dickens--" He pulled up short, eyes lighting. "That's so, you know," he argued: "Bannerman will be delighted, and--and even business is better than rushing round town and pretending to enjoy yourself when it's hotter than the seven brass hinges of hell and you can't think of anything else.... I'll do it!" He stepped quickly to the corner of the room, where stood the telephone upon a small side table, sat down, and, receiver to ear, gave Central a number. In another moment he was in communication with his attorney's residence. "Is Mr. Bannerman in? I would like to--" * * * * * "Why, Mr. Bannerman! How _do_ you do?" * * * * * "You're looking a hundred per cent better--" * * * * * "Bad, bad word! Naughty!--" "Maitland, of course." * * * * * "Been out of town and just got your note." * * * * * "Your beastly penchant for economy. It's not stamped; I presume you sent it round by hand of the future President of the United States whom you now employ as office-boy. And O'Hagan didn't forward it for that reason." * * * * * "Important, eh? I'm only in for the night--" * * * * * "Then come and dine with me at the Primordial. I'll put the others off." * * * * * "Good enough. In an hour, then? Good-by." Hanging up the receiver, Maitland waited a few moments ere again putting it to his ear. This time he called up Sherry's, asked for the head-waiter, and, requested that person to be kind enough to make his excuses to "Mr. Cressy and his party": he, Maitland, was detained upon a matter of moment, but would endeavor to join them at a later hour. Then, with a satisfied smile, he turned away, with purpose to dispose of Bannerman's note. "Bath's ready, sor." O'Hagan's announcement fell upon heedless ears. Maitland remained motionless before the desk--transfixed with amazement. "Bath's ready, sor!"--imperatively. Maitland roused slightly. "Very well; in a minute, O'Hagan." Yet for some time he did not move. Slowly the heavy brows contracted over intent eyes as he strove to puzzle it out. At length his lips moved noiselessly. "Am I awake?" was the question he put his consciousness. Wondering, he bent forward and drew the tip of one forefinger across the black polished wood of the writing-bed. It left a dark, heavy line. And beside it, clearly defined in the heavy layer of dust, was the silhouette of a hand; a woman's hand, small, delicate, unmistakably feminine of contour.