He entered the library with a strutting martial air, and, as once before, the comfortable old lady looked up from her knitting and asked how she could serve him. “I have called for letters and parcels for Mr. George Loring,” said Whately in a falsetto voice, which was the result of diligent practice. But a glance at pigeon-hole L showed him that it was empty.... “Yes, parcel and letter for Mr. George Loring,” said the old dame, “but the parcel was too big to put in the pigeon-hole, let alone lifting it. So I put them together somewhere. Deary me, now, where was it?” “This is a strange way to conduct a public library,” said Whately, forgetting all about the assumed falsetto, “that the librarian should not know where she has deposited the property of her subscribers. Mr. Martin would be far from pleased. I am pressed for time, madam. Business in the city----” The old lady turned slowly round and beamed on him. “And if I wasn’t sitting on it all the time,” she said, “just for safety, as you may say. There, young man, you’ll find it heavy, and there’s sixpence to pay.” “A most reasonable charge, madam,” said Whately. “And--and can you tell me who left the parcel--what he looked like?” She nodded at him. “Such a fur coat I never see,” she said, “and his motor fair stopped the traffic. I didn’t take much account of his face, though I would swear to a beard.” “A shrewd observer!” said Whately in his most genial tones, and staggering out of the shop with his parcel, deposited it on his own toe as he stepped into the cab. The pain was severe, and for the moment damped his ecstasy and caused him a loss of self-control. “Charing Cross Hotel, you old idiot!” was his unjustifiable direction to his cabman. As he drove there he tore open the note. It ran as follows: “DEAR SIR,--You have me completely in your power, and I send the money you demand. Kindly forward me at once the documentary evidence you speak of. Faithfully yours, PEEBLES.” Again he felt vaguely disappointed. The fish had given him less play than he hoped; he had but towed its sulking carcass to land. But, then, he did not know that there followed him, threading the intricacies of traffic close behind him, a taxicab in which was sitting a quiet-looking gentleman with pince-nez. Its destination also appeared to be Charing Cross Hotel. The hall porter opened the door of his cab, and Whately indicated his parcel. “Move that into the bureau, if you will be so kind,” he said. “It contains a--a model, a metal model, and is heavy. I am going upstairs to change my clothes, and will be down again in ten minutes.”