I should not have cared a button, naturally, had it not been for Dulcie and the estrangement between us that the foolish old lady's behaviour created. Dulcie thought no end of her aunt, respected her views and sentiments—she had been brought up to do so, poor child—and, I knew, really loved her. "Well," I said to myself tartly, "she will now have to choose between Aunt Hannah and me," and feeling cock-sure, after all that had occurred between us, that I should be the favoured one and that Aunt Hannah would be metaphorically relegated to the scrap-heap, I decided to approach Dulcie at once. No, first I must see the original of that telegram, I reflected. Accompanied, therefore, by the police officer, I made my way to the post office in Regent Street. Having explained that I wanted to see the original of the telegram "because," as I said, "I think a mistake has been made in transcribing it," I was presently confronted by the postmaster, a most courteous, obliging person. "Why, certainly," he said, when I had repeated my untruth. "You shall see it at once." I waited in anxious expectancy, chatting lightly with the policeman, while the postmaster looked through the file of the day's messages. "This is it, I think," he said presently—we were in his private room. "But," he went on, glancing from the message that had been sent to the original, "your original message is unsigned. Is that the alleged mistake of which you complain?" "Unsigned!" I exclaimed, taking both papers from him. "Why yes, so it is! Then how does that message that was sent off come to be signed?" The original message was type-written. The wording was exactly the same as that in the telegram received, with this exception—the telegram received was signed "Michael Berrington," the typed message had no signature. "How do you account for this discrepancy?" I asked quickly. "If you will kindly wait a moment," he answered, "I will inquire into this." He left the room. The policeman, to whom I had handed both messages, was still contemplating them with a look of perplexity in his round eyes, when the postmaster returned, bringing with him an intelligent-looking girl. "This," he said, "is the young lady who transmitted the message." I am afraid I smiled. How long, I wonder, will post-office assistants, and shop girls, bar tenders, and others continue to be "young ladies," while ladies in the correct sense of the word never think, when talking of one another, of using terms more distinctive and dignified than "girl" and "woman"? "Do you remember my sending this telegram this morning?" I asked, looking her full in the eyes.