“Dawlish?” asked the postman. “That is my name,” said Peter, in surprise. He took the letter and closed the door. Had he followed the practice of Severall Street and its people, which is never to go to the door without making a scrutiny up and down the street, he could not have failed to see Leslie on her way home. His first thought was that it was a letter from her, but when he brought it to the light of his room, he saw that it was typewritten and had been posted in the city. He opened the envelope and took out a sheet of typewriting paper. It was discoloured, and one corner had been torn off. He looked at the date and had a mild shock. “July 7, 1916.” And yet--as he saw--it had been posted that afternoon. There were just three or four lines, the last of which stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence. Only dimly did he comprehend the significance of the fragment. Dear Jane: Druze has found a very good home for your son in a middle-class family. There are no other children. He will be well cared for. And---- Scribbled below in pencil, and almost indecipherable, were the words: “Martha’s servant.” He must have read the letter a dozen times before he understood. “Jane’s son--Jane’s little son!” He came to his feet slowly, his limbs trembling, the paper swimming before his eyes. Jane’s son--his son! The consciousness of fatherhood momentarily overwhelmed him. Jane had had a child. He had never dreamed--somewhere in the world was a little boy, fatherless--his little boy! He grew hot at the thought. And then, in a frenzy of impatience, he took up his coat, struggled into it, and, not stopping to extinguish the lamp, ran down the stairs and out of the house. The bus that carried him to Piccadilly seemed to crawl. He got down at a traffic block at Bond Street, half walked, half ran into Berkeley Street, and came at last to the dark portals of Lady Raytham’s house. It was past ten. She might be out. But he would wait for her--all night if necessary. He hated her at that moment and there was jealousy behind the hate. He hated her for not telling him, for excluding him from the knowledge and inspiration of their gift. Perhaps he was being brought up as Raytham’s child, to call him “father.” Peter grew insanely furious at the thought. To the new butler who opened the door all callers were as yet strange. Peter seemed no stranger than others and he was met civilly. “What name shall I tell her ladyship?” he asked. “Mr. Peter,” said Peter, after thought. He was shown into the small drawing room, and paced up and down like a caged animal until he heard the door open and, turning, met face to face, for the first time in eight years, the woman of “the adventure.”