It was a lively chase while it lasted; I must have presented an elegant figure as, hatless, my coat tails flying, I raced through those respectable streets. Fortunately, he was no match for me in pace; I had him before he reached the Fulham Road. He must have been in shocking condition, for he had already run himself right out, and, gasping for breath, was panting like a blown rabbit. Saying nothing--I felt that that was not the place in which to carry on the sort of conversation I had in my mind’s eye--I took him by the shoulder and marched him back again. He, on his part, was equally mute, and made not the slightest effort at resistance. Miss Adair received us at the door. “What on earth is the matter? Where have you been? And who is this man?” Her trick of speaking in italics reminded me of her manner on the stage. I led my companion into the sitting-room. There I introduced him. “This is Mr. George Withers. I fancy he can give us information on a subject on which, at this moment, information is very much needed.” “Mr. George Withers” was a mere youth, scarcely more than a boy. I was not prepossessed by his appearance, though he was well dressed and had a handsome face. He had proved himself a cur; I felt sure that he was a sneak, and perhaps something worse as well. I handed him the letter which I had taken from the lady’s pocket. “I believe, Mr. Withers, that this letter is for you.” He seemed at first reluctant to take it, as if fearful that it contained something which might disturb his peace of mind. He eyed it doubtfully; read the address; perceived that the envelope had been opened. A disagreeable look came upon his handsome countenance; he turned on me with a snarl. “Who are you? What do you mean by treating me as you have done? And how dare you open a letter that’s addressed to me?” “First read your letter, Mr. Withers. Put your questions afterwards.” He scanned the brief epistle with looks which did not improve as he went on. Then he snapped at me as if he would have liked to bite as well. “You stole it; you must have stolen it! I’ve half a mind to give you in charge; you don’t know what mischief you mayn’t have done.” “Is the person alluded to as ‘that scoundrel’ in the letter which you are holding Mr. Edwin Lawrence of Imperial Mansions?” “What do you want to know for? What do you mean by meddling in my affairs? What business is it of yours?” “Because, if it is, Mr. Edwin Lawrence is dead.” “Dead!” “He was murdered last night.” “Murdered!” The fashion of his countenance changed. “Then she--she killed him.” He staggered back till he staggered against a chair. A pitiful object he presented as he perched himself upon the edge. Neither Miss Adair nor I said a word. After a moment’s interval, during which the muscles of his face twitched as if he had become suddenly possessed with St. Vitus’ Dance, he went rambling on, apparently not altogether conscious of what it was that he was saying.