Suddenly I felt ill, and collapsed. I gave a few instructions, left the office and went home to Piccadilly, and to bed. It was about eight o'clock when Preston woke me. I had had a bath and changed, and was wondering exactly what I should do for the rest of the evening, when Preston came in and said that there was a boy who wished to see me. He would neither give his name nor his business, but seemed respectable. I remembered Pat's mysterious telegram, which till now I had quite forgotten, and with a certain quickening of the pulses I ordered the boy to be shown up. He came into the room with a scrape and a bow, a nice-looking lad of sixteen, decently dressed in black. "Who are you and what do you want?" I said. He seemed a little nervous and his eyes were bright. "Are you Sir Thomas Kirby?" "Yes, what is it? By the way, haven't you been all the way to Norfolk to find me?" "Yes, sir, it's my day off, but unfortunately I found you had left, sir, so I came on here as fast as I could. A gentleman at Cerne Hall gave me your address." "And how did you know I was at Cerne Hall?" "It's on the envelope, sir." "The envelope?" "Yes, sir, the one I was to deliver to you personally, and on no account to let it get into the hands of any one else, even one of your servants, sir, and"--he breathed a little fast--"and the lady said that you would certainly give me fifty pounds, sir, if I did exactly as she ordered, and never breathed a word to a single soul." In an instant I understood. The blood grew hot and raced into my veins as I held out my hand, trembling with impatience, while the youth performed a somewhat complicated operation of half undressing, eventually producing a brown paper packet intricately tied with string, from some inner recesses of his wardrobe. "Who are you?" I asked while he was unbuttoning. "James Smith, sir, one of the pages at the Ritz Hotel." I tore off the wrappers imposed upon the letter by this cautious youth. There was a letter addressed to me in a fine Italian hand which I knew from having seen it in one word only--"Cerne." Fortunately, I had plenty of money in the flat and there was no need to give the excellent James Smith a check. He gasped with joy as he tucked away the crackling bits of paper. "And remember, not ever a word to any one, Smith." "On my honor, sir," he said, saluting. "And what will you do with it, Smith?" "Please, sir, I hope to pelmanize myself into an hotel manager," he said, and I let him go at that. I only hope that he will succeed. I opened the letter. It ran as follows: "Farewell. I don't suppose we shall ever meet again. I am forced to retire from the world--from love--from you. "I cannot explain, but fear walks with me night and day. Oh, my love! if you could only save me, you would, I know, but it is impossible and so farewell. Were I not sure that we shall not see each other more I could not write as I have done and signed myself here,