"Michael," he said, and there was an odd catch in his voice, "I wonder if you have the remotest conception of the strength of my attachment to you. I don't believe you have. And yet I could hardly be more attached to you than I am if you were my own son." When, after parting from Sir Roland and Dulcie in London—they were to return to Holt direct—I arrived with Albeury at my flat in South Molton Street, I found a stack of letters awaiting me, also several telegrams. Simon, my man, was expecting me—I had telegraphed from Newhaven—but almost directly he opened the door I noticed a change in his expression, and to some extent in his manner. Deferential, also curiously reserved, he had always been, but now there was a "something" in his eyes, a look which made me think he had something on his mind—something he wished to say to me but dared not say. I had sent Albeury into my study to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of wine while I went up to my room to have a bath. Simon was still busy with my things when I came out of the bathroom, and, while I dressed, I took the opportunity of questioning him. "What's amiss, Simon?" I asked lightly. He looked up with a start. "Amiss, sir?" he repeated, with obvious embarrassment. "I said 'amiss.' Out with it." He seemed, for some moments, unable to meet my glance. Then suddenly he faced me unflinchingly. "Yes?" I said encouragingly, as he did not speak. "I'll tell you what's amiss, sir," he answered abruptly, forcing himself to speak. "The day after you'd left, a peculiar-looking man called here, and asked to see you. When I told him you were not at home, he asked if you were out of town. I didn't answer that, sir, but I asked him quite politely if I couldn't give you any message. He answered No, that he must see you himself. Then he started to question me, in a kind of roundabout way, about you and your movements, sir." "I hope you kept your counsel," I exclaimed quickly, for, excellent servant though Simon, was, he occasionally lacked discretion. "Indeed I did, sir. Though I was quite courteous, I was a bit short with him. The next day he come again, about the same time—it was close on dinner time—and with him this time was another man—a rather younger man. They questioned me again, sir, quite friendly-like, but they didn't get much change out of me. Yesterday they tried it on a third time—both of them come again—and, well, sir, happing to put my hand into my jacket pocket soon after they were gone, I found these in it." As he spoke he dived into his jacket, and pulled out an envelope. Opening the envelope, he withdrew from it what I saw at a glance were bank-notes. Unfolding them with trembling hands, which made the notes crackle noisily, he showed me that he had there ten five-pound notes. "And they gave you those for nothing?" I asked, meaning to be ironical.