They left the parcel with the porter and then strolled on to Miss Allen’s hotel. Fayre’s conversation was as intelligent as could be expected in the circumstances, but it was somewhat mechanical, for his mind was wrestling busily with this new problem. Until now it had not occurred to him to connect Miss Allen’s visit to London with that of Gregg, but now he began to wonder. He had parted from her and was on his way back to his club when the probable explanation dawned on him. Did the parcel she had just left for Gregg contain some of the letters she had “disposed of”? It seemed more than likely. If so, Fayre would have given a good deal for a glance at the contents of the packet. Events followed each other in an almost uncanny sequence. When he reached the club he was handed a card by the porter, who told him that a gentleman was waiting to see him, and the name on it, to his astonishment, was that of Gregg. Fayre found some difficulty in collecting his thoughts as he went in search of his visitor and led him to a secluded corner of the almost deserted library. The conversation opened awkwardly, for Gregg seemed to be labouring under an acute attack of embarrassment. “Very good of you to see me after what happened,” he began clumsily, his manner even more abrupt than usual. “Fact is, I made a blithering ass of myself the other day and I’ve come to say so. Hope you’ll accept an apology.” “That’s all right. I expect I must have seemed an infernal busybody,” said Fayre hastily. “I’m only too glad you’ve come to look on me in a more friendly light. Are you a tea-drinker or would you prefer something else?” He waited impatiently while the servant supplied their needs. When he had gone Gregg, as he had hoped, came directly to the point. “You asked for an explanation the other day,” he said bluntly. “If it hadn’t been for my infernally hot temper I should have given it and saved us both a lot of trouble. Well, I’ve come to give it now.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his tea cooling unheeded by his side.