"PHILIP." Then he tried to resume his dinner, but his appetite was gone. In postal facilities, owing to its position on a main line, York is well served from London. At 9 P. M. two letters, one a bulky package and registered, reached him. The letter was from Mr. Abingdon. It briefly acknowledged his telegram, stated that a man in the Athenæum, who knew Sir Philip Morland, had informed him, in response to guarded inquiries, that the baronet was exceedingly well off, and called attention to some important leases inclosed which required his signature. The other note was from Evelyn. It was tender and loving, and contained a reference that added to the mystification of her telegram. "In the hurry of your departure yesterday," she wrote, "we forgot to mention Blue Atom. What is your opinion? The price is high, certainly, but, then, picture the joy of it--the only one in the world!" And, again, came another message: "I referred to Blue Atom, of course. What did the post office make it into? "EVELYN." Blue Atom was assuming spectral dimensions. He cursed the thing fluently. It was high priced, a joy, alone in solitary glory. What could it be? He strolled into the station, and entered into conversation with a platform inspector. "By the way," he said, casually, "have you ever heard of anything called a blue atom?" The man grinned. "Is that another name for D. T.'s, sir?" Grenier gave it up, and resolved to postpone a decision until the next morning. By a late train Philip's portmanteau arrived. It was locked, and the key reposed in the safe. Green, it ultimately transpired, solemnly opened the safe in the presence of the housekeeper and butler, locked it again without disturbing any of the other contents, and handed the key to the butler, who placed it in the silver pantry. In the solitude of his room, Grenier burst the lock. The rascal received one of the greatest shocks of his life when he examined the contents--a quantity of old clothing, some worn boots, a ball of twine, a bed coverlet, a big, iron key, the tattered letters, and a variety of odds and ends that would have found no corner in a respectable rag shop. He burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. "Ye gods and little fishes!" he cried. "What a treasure! The Clerkenwell suit, I suppose, and a woman's skirt and blouse. Old-timers, too, by their style. His mother's, I expect. He must have been fond of his mother." At that moment Jocky Mason, beetle-browed and resentful, was reading a letter which reached his lodgings two hours before his arrival, in an envelope bearing the ominous initials--O. H. M. S. It was from the Southwark Police Station. "SIR: Kindly make it convenient to attend here to-morrow evening at 8 P. M. Yours truly, "T. BRADLEY, Inspector."