In the afternoon Beaumanoir, shaking off some of his weary apathy, went down to the portico with his male guests to receive the four ladies, who arrived in time for tea, which, with the General’s acquiescence, was to be taken on the terrace. No sooner were the first greetings over than Mrs. Sadgrove caught her husband’s eye and telegraphed the information that she had something for his private ear at the earliest opportunity. He therefore contrived to lag behind with her while Beaumanoir did the honors to Leonie and her mother, and Forsyth paired off with Sybil, as the party mounted the marble steps to the terrace. "Jem," said Mrs. Sadgrove, scanning the rugged face of her spouse with a sidelong scrutiny, "I received an anonymous letter this morning. Let them get ahead a bit, and I’ll show it to you." The screed which she put into his hand contained but five words: "_There is danger from Ziegler._" General Sadgrove’s Eastern experiences had not educated him into an expert in calligraphy, but it needed no particular insight to perceive that this was a lady’s handwriting, clumsily disguised. He transferred his attention to the paper, half a sheet of "note"; and here he was rewarded with a startling discovery. He had noticed that the letter of acceptance from Mrs. Talmage Eglinton, which the Duke had received at breakfast, had been heavily charged with a peculiar perfume, and this unsigned missive was simply reeking of the same pungent fragrance. He had sat next the Duke, and knew that there was no mistake. "You have no idea who sent this?" he asked. "I seem to recognize the scent as having come to me before in notes—proper, signed notes," Mrs. Sadgrove replied, evasively. And then she added, with gentle significance, not from curiosity, but from a desire to help him in case he did not know: "I heard the name of Ziegler when we were calling at the Cecil yesterday. It was mentioned, I think, by one of the attendants as that of the gentleman occupying the rooms where the disturbance was." The General looked hard at her, and saw that his little drama had not deceived the companion of his Indian days. "Yes," he said, shortly. "Do not trouble about this, Madge. It’s all in the day’s work." But he himself was greatly troubled, inasmuch as if that anonymous warning came from Mrs. Talmage Eglinton all his "case" was demolished, and a perfect maze of new problems was presented. A warning from her would be presumptive evidence that she was an ally, and—sad blow to his _amour propre_—would stultify all the theories he had based on what he had fondly hoped was an unerring intuition. He would have to begin all over again, solacing himself—and it was no small solace—with the reflection that he had raised an unnecessary bogey in anticipating danger to Sybil Hanbury from Mrs. Talmage Eglinton’s visit.