“Yes, indeed, sir. She that never left home before since I was a child—for I’ve known her ever since I can remember, and never knew her to be away for so much as a single night. And the first thing this morning when I was lighting the kitchen fire she opens the door and just looks in and says—‘Martha, I’m going to London. Don’t expect me back till you see me. There’s a letter on the parlour table,’ she says. ‘Let it lie there till it’s called for—don’t you touch it, nor yet the box,’ and she shuts the kitchen door and walks off just as quietly as if she was going to early church, as she has done many a time before it was daylight. I was that upset that I knelt before the stove a good few minutes before I could realize that she was gone—and then I run out and looked after her. She was almost out of sight, walking up the lane towards Cheriton.” “Had she no luggage—did she take nothing with her?” “Nothing. Not so much as a hand-bag.” “What time was this?” “It struck six a few minutes after I went back to the kitchen.” “What about the letter—and the box your mistress spoke of?” “There they are, sir, on the parlour table, where she left them. _I’m_ not going to touch them,” said the girl, with emphasis. “She told me not, and I’m not going to disobey her.” “To whom is the letter addressed?” “Do you mean who it’s for, sir?” “Yes.” “It’s for his lordship—and it’s to lie there till his lordship sends for it.” “In that case I may as well give it to his lordship’s servant, who can take it up to the house presently.” “I don’t know if that will be right, sir. She said it was to be called for.” “Then we call for it. I, his lordship’s cousin, and James, his lordship’s groom. Won’t that do for you?” “I suppose that will be right, sir,” the girl answered doubtfully. “The letter and the box are both on the table, and I wasn’t to interfere with either of ’em, and I’m not going to it. That’s all I can say.” The girl was swollen with the importance of her mission as being associated with a mystery, and she was also in lively dread of her very severe mistress, who might come down the lane at any moment and surprise her in some act of dereliction. Theodore passed her by and went into the sitting-room where he had taken tea with the Kempsters and Cuthbert Ramsay. A letter lay on the carved oak table in front of the window, and beside the letter there stood a walnut-wood box, eighteen inches by nine. The letter was addressed, in a bold, characteristic hand, to Lord Cheriton. To be called for. The box had a small brass plate upon the lid, and a name engraved upon the plate— THOMAS C. DARCY, 9th Foot. No one who had ever seen such a box before could doubt that this was a pistol-case. It was unlocked, and Theodore lifted the lid. One pistol lay in its place, neatly fitted into the velvet-lined receptacle. The place for the second pistol was vacant.