I saw her off at Paddington. Mechanically I kissed her; why I did I cannot say, for I felt no desire to. It was, I suppose, that instinctively I realized that if I failed to greet her then in the way she would expect me to she would suspect that I knew something. She had asked me during our drive through the streets of London who had told me where to find her; but what I answered I cannot recollect. I made, I believe, some random reply which apparently satisfied her. For two hours I lay upon my bed in my flat in South Molton Street, tossing restlessly, my mind distraught, my brain on fire. Never before had I been in love, and perhaps for that reason I felt this cruel blow—my disillusionment—the more severely. Once or twice my man, Simon, knocked, then tried the door and found it locked, then called out to ask if anything were amiss with me. I scarcely heard him, and did not answer. I wanted to be left alone, left in complete solitude to suffer my deep misery unseen and unheard. I suppose I must have slept at last—in bed at three and up at eight, my night had been a short one—for when presently I opened my eyes I saw that the time was half-past two. Then the thought flashed in upon me that in my telegram I had promised to go to Eton to see Dick by the train leaving Paddington at three. I had barely time to catch it. A thorough wash restored me to some extent to my normal senses, and at Paddington I bought a sandwich which served that day instead of lunch. Once or twice before I had been down to Eton to see Dick, though on those occasions I had been accompanied by Sir Roland. I had little difficulty now in obtaining leave to take him out to tea. He wanted to speak to me "quite privately," he said as we walked arm in arm up the main street, so I decided to take him to the "White Hart," and there I ordered tea in a private room. "Now, Mike," he said in a confidential tone, when at last we were alone, "this is what I want to draw your attention to," and, as he spoke, he produced a rather dirty envelope from his trousers pocket, opened it and carefully shook out on to the table several newspaper cuttings, each three or four lines in length. "What on earth are those about, old boy?" I asked, surprised. "Newspaper advertisements, aren't they?" "Yes, out of the _Morning Post_, all on the front page. If you will wait a minute I will put them all in order—the date of each is written on the back—and then _you_ will see if things strike _you_ in the way they have struck me." These were the cuttings: "R.P, bjptnbblx. wamii. xvzzjv. okk. zxxp.—DUSKY FOWL." "Rlxt. ex. lnvrb. 4. zcokk. zbpl. qc. Ptfrd. Avnsp. Hvfbl. Ucaqkoggwx.—DUSKY FOWL." "Plt. ecii. pv. oa. t1vp. uysaa. djt. xru. przvf. 4.—DUSKY FOWL." "Nvnntltmms. Pvvvdnzzpn. ycyswsa. Bpix. uyyuqecgsqa. X. W. ljfh. sc. jvtzfhdvb.—DUSKY FOWL."