I suppose it was because I had opened it, prepared for some shock, some calamity, that I read this letter with such calmness, such impassiveness. Instead of springing up to stride the room, like one beside himself, instead of gasping "Gone!--and for ever! My God! What can it mean?" I rose quietly from my chair, and, thrusting the letter into my pocket, walked over leisurely to stir the fire. That there was an obstacle of some sort between Kate and me, I had realised the last time she and I had stood in this same room together, and she had confessed her love. But bogeys--most of all the bogeys of a woman's making and imagining, paralyse and appal her as they may--do not greatly alarm the average man. That which she pronounces to be an insurmountable obstacle, he first surveys on all sides to satisfy himself that it is an obstacle at all, and then calmly goes to work to discover how that obstacle can best be overcome. Kate loved me; I loved her. Given these facts, I saw no reason to despair. So, as I say, instead of indulging in the usual heroics with which--when the heroine by word of mouth, or by letter, informs the hero that there is some occult reason why she "can never be his"--we are all familiar in the pages of a novel, or on the stage, I merely stirred the fire meditatively. "Now for Miss Clara's epistle," I said, opening the second letter. "Let us see if _she_ can throw any light on the mystery." MY DEAR BOY (it ran),--I have some very bad news for you. I kept it to myself while you were telling us your adventures the other morning, for I did not want to upset you, until the actual necessity for action had come. It concerns myself and Clara, very nearly and very terribly--how nearly and how terribly Clara does not know, for I wish to spare her as much pain as I can. All the time you and she and I were together that morning I knew, though she and you did not, that it would be our last meeting for, perhaps, a long time. During that time it will be a great relief to Clara and to me to be assured of your personal safety; and that you are safe--so long as you are engaged in detective work--neither she nor I can ever be sure. In all probability you noticed that before leaving you and Clara together, I took her aside for a moment to give her some instructions. These instructions were that she was to use all her influence to get you to promise to abandon the dangerous pursuit in which you are engaged, and to devote yourself instead to novel-writing. As Clara failed to obtain such a promise, I returned, to see if I could not obtain that promise myself. You were very good to me. You always have been good to me, and gave me the required promise at once. I am very grateful, my dear boy, for that and for all the consideration and affection you have shown to an ugly old woman.