"Why didn't you burn it? I told you to burn 'em all," snapped his employer. "This one is not about you. It's about Hutchings," said Mr. Manley in an explanatory tone. "Hutchings? What about Hutchings?" "You'd better read it," said Mr. Manley, handing him the letter. "It seems to be from some spiteful woman." The letter was indeed written in female handwriting, and it accused the butler, wordily enough, of having received a commission from Lord Loudwater's wine merchants on a purchase of fifty dozen of champagne which he had bought from them a month before. It further stated that he had received a like commission on many other such purchases. Lord Loudwater read it, scowling, sprang up from his chair with his eyes protruding further than usual, and cried: "The scoundrel! The blackguard! I'll teach him! I'll gaol him!" He dashed at the electric bell by the fireplace, set his thumb on it, and kept it there. Holloway, the second footman, came running. The servants knew their master's ring. They always ran to answer it, after some discussion as to which of them should go. He entered and said: "Yes, m'lord?" "Send that scoundrel Hutchings to me! Send him at once!" roared his master. "Yes, m'lord," said Holloway, and hurried away. He found James Hutchings in his pantry, told him that their master wanted him, and added that he was in a tearing rage. Hutchings, who never expected his sanguine and irascible master to be in any other mood, finished the paragraph of the article in the _Daily Telegraph_ he was reading, put on his coat, and went to the study. His delay gave Lord Loudwater's wrath full time to mature. When the butler entered his master shook his fist at him and roared: "You scoundrel! You infernal scoundrel! You've been robbing me! You've been robbing me for years, you blackguard!" James Hutchings met the charge with complete calm. He shook his head and said in a surly tone: "No; I haven't done anything of the kind, m'lord." The flat denial infuriated his master yet more. He spluttered and was for a while incoherent. Then he became again articulate and said: "You have, you rogue! You took a commission--a secret commission on that fifty dozen of champagne I bought last month. You've been doing it for years." James Hutchings' surly face was transformed. It grew malignant; his fierce, protruding, red-rimmed blue eyes sparkled balefully, and he flushed to a redness as deep as that of his master. He knew at once who had betrayed him, and he was furious--at the betrayal. At the same time, he was not greatly alarmed; he had never received a cheque from the wine merchants; all their payments to him had been in cash, and he had always cherished a warm contempt for his master. "I haven't," he said fiercely. "And if I had it would be quite regular--only a perquisite."