"You have reasoned all this out," said Bob, "in a most wonderful way." "It is not I who reason it out. I am conscious of the extent of my own natural powers, and it would be impossible for me to bring forward these links and to logically connect them were I not spiritually directed. What is occupying my mind just now is the question whether I ought to take Ronald Elsdale into my confidence without waiting for further developments?" Bob's reply was very humble. "Whatever you decide upon, Ned, will be right. The fatalist never doubts that the least incident in his life could have been otherwise than it is." "Truly," I said, "I am in the position of a fatalist, and once a step is decided upon I shall not hesitate to take it, and shall not question its wisdom. By to-morrow morning the question will be answered for me." My wife opened the street door for us. "Why, who would have thought of seeing you, Mr. Millet!" she exclaimed. "But come in, come in; there's a bit of supper for you. Now, you two keeping together at this time of night shows what friends you must have been when you were boys. I hope you've had a pleasant evening." "Rather an exciting one," I said. "We have been at a fire." "A fire! Where?" "In Stanmore Street; a long way from here." "No one hurt, I hope?" "An unfortunate gentleman lost his life in the fire. It is rather curious, Maria, that this gentleman should have been the owner of the house we looked over in Lamb's Terrace yesterday." The news made her grave. "There is nothing but trouble connected with that dreadful place," she said. "But there, I don't want to think of it. I'd have given a good deal never to have set foot in it." Before Bob left I wrote out the check for Mr. Gascoigne, and when I went to bed I was kept awake for a long time by thinking whether I ought to take Ronald Elsdale immediately into my confidence. I fell asleep with this question in my mind, and when I awoke in the morning I decided that it would be first advisable that I should ascertain some particulars of the last tenant, and of the death of the young lady, Beatrice. It was not an easy task I now set myself, and I felt that there was little chance of success, if I attempted it unaided. Desultory inquiries could lead to no satisfactory result, and I therefore determined to enlist the services of a private inquiry agent. Casting my mind over the most likely person to assist me, I recollected that a friend some years ago had need of the services of such a person, and had employed one Mr. Dickson, with good effect. Looking through the columns of a morning paper I saw Mr. Dickson's advertisement; and at eleven o'clock I set out for his office, which was situated in Arundel Street, Strand. On my doorstep I confronted a telegraph boy with a telegram for me. It was from Bob, and it ran as follows: Arranged house, Lamb's Terrace; yours for three months.