“That’s very sporting of you,” declared Anthony. “But somehow I don’t think that’s the true explanation—Miss Lennox, Clegg tells me, was working on her own to recover the lost handkerchief—so I don’t think she employed Mr. Llewellyn. Now—listen. I watched our gentleman very carefully when we were all in here this morning—when Stewart sent for him and also afterwards—and I’m pretty confident that he’s uneasy about something in this library. From the way in which he used his eyes on this desk—I deduce a document or paper of some kind. I may be wrong, of course. This is where I come to the remark I made when we came in just now. During our absence at Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s—Goodall came as well, remember—he may have made hay while the sun shone. But I think not, my dear Daventry, I think not.” He crossed to Stewart’s bookcase. “You may have noticed more than once in your experience that a man will very often put an important paper handed to him unexpectedly into a receptacle that he has handy at the moment. As I see the facts of the case after Colonel Leach-Fletcher said his ‘good-bye’ to Laurence Stewart, Stewart returned to the book that he had been reading. The Colonel was good enough to remember its title. It was Renan’s ‘_Vie de Jésus_.’” Anthony stopped and pondered for a minute or two. Peter wondered what was troubling him. Whatever it was, it soon passed. He lifted up the glass front of the bookcase and sought the book he had just mentioned. “A singularly beautiful piece of work, this, Daventry,” he declared. “But I expect you’ve read it.” He brought it over to Peter—then held it by the two sides of the cover and fluttered its leaves together quickly. A paper fell on the carpet. Peter’s hand, disengaged and therefore at an advantage, beat Anthony’s in its descent, by the merest fraction. He ran his eye over it with eager excitement. “It’s a letter,” he cried—“from Morgan Llewellyn.” “Really,” said Anthony—“and to whom?” Peter’s eyes searched for the information. “To Miss Lennox,” he gasped. “_Voilà!_” murmured Mr. Bathurst. CHAPTER XV Mr. Daventry Gets His Feet Wet “Read it to me, Daventry,” said Anthony. “Upon what precisely does Mr. Llewellyn find time to write to Miss Lennox? For the sake of her ‘_beaux yeux_’?” Peter tossed it to him—rather ungraciously let it be said. “Read it yourself, though it seems to me to concern Miss Lennox herself and Miss Lennox only.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and strode to the bookcase—where he stood, moodily, with his back to his companion.