Mrs. Barnard answered the question: “No, nothing. Isn’t she a splendid girl? I wish we saw more of her. She is so amusing and vivacious. No wonder men are always attracted by her!” “Does she live in London?” Lydon asked. “When she is in England, she stays with her uncle, Mr. Whitehouse. But I believe she is a great deal with her brother in Paris.” So this cosmopolitan young lady had a brother in Paris. Lydon would very much have liked to ask something about the brother, and also in what part of London Whitehouse resided, but his delicacy kept him back. Somehow, personal details never seemed forthcoming in the Stormont family, with perhaps the exception of Gloria, who was frankness itself. You always had to dig for them. After dinner they went as usual into the billiard-room. Mrs. Barnard, contrary to her usual habit, accompanied them and took upon herself the office of marker. After the game was over she very considerately left them to themselves for a few moments. No doubt, she had a recollection of her own courting days. A little while before the young man was preparing to take his leave, she came in with a bundle of letters in her hand. “Leonard, I found these on my brother’s table just now. He had intended to take them along with him, and forgot them in the hurry of leaving. Will you please post them at Guildford or somewhere as you drive along?” Lydon promised that he would. He said good-bye to the amiable Mrs. Barnard. Gloria accompanied him to his car, and here the farewell was a somewhat protracted one, as is usual with newly-engaged couples. He drove away over the Hog’s Back, and stopped before the Guildford Post Office. For the first time he looked at the letters as he dropped them into the box. He came to the last, and read the superscription in Stormont’s bold handwriting. It was addressed to Miss Mayhew, 18 Ashstead Mansions, Sloane Square. A little time ago he had been longing to ask at dinner where Mr. Whitehouse lived, and had refrained from feelings of delicacy. By the merest accident, the forgetfulness of Stormont, he had found out what he wanted. This was a piece of luck. His first natural impulse was to scribble the address upon his shirt-cuff and send the letter into the box with the others. He never quite knew why he changed his mind. Probably his strong conviction that there was a great element of mystery about Stormont himself, and, secondly, his equally strong obsession that Elise Makris and Zillah Mayhew were one and the same person. Second thoughts gained the day. Instead of posting the letter, as he knew he ought to have done, he put it back in his wallet, jumped back into the car, and drove along the London Road through Ripley, Cobham, Esher and Kingston to the garage close to Ryder Street.