He watched whilst Mr. Church passed to the door, received the morning tea tray from the servant outside, and, placing it by the bed, withdrew. This was the only menial service which Mr. Church ever seemed to perform, with the exception of the stately carrying in of papers and letters at breakfast time. Jones drank his tea. Then he got up, went to the window, looked out at the sunlit Green Park, and then rang his bell. He was not depressed nor nervous this morning. He felt extraordinarily fit. The powerful good spirits natural to him, a heritage better than a fortune, were his again. Life seemed wonderfully well worth living, and the game before him the only game worth playing. Then the Mechanism came into the room and began to act. James was the name of this individual. Dumb and serious and active as an insect, this man always filled Jones' mind with wonderment; he seemed less a man than a machine. But at least he was a perfect machine. Fully dressed now, he was preparing to go down when a knock came to the door and Mr. Church came in with a big envelope on a salver. "This is what you requested me to fetch from Jermyn Street, my Lord." "Oh, you've been to Jermyn Street?" "Yes, my Lord, directly I had served your tea at quarter to eight, I took a taxi." "Good!" said Jones. He took the envelope, and, Church and the Mechanism having withdrawn, he sat down by the window to have a look at the contents. The envelope contained letters. Letters from a man to a woman. Letters from the Earl of Rochester to Sapphira Plinlimon. The most odiously and awfully stupid collection of love letters ever written by a fool to be read by a wigged counsel in a divorce court. They covered three months, and had been written two years ago. They were passionate, idealistic in parts, drivelling. He called her his "Ickle teeny weeny treasure." Baby language--Jones almost blushed as he read. "He sure was moulting," said he, as he dropped letter after letter on the floor. "And he paid eight thousand to hold these things back--well, I don't know, maybe I'd have done the same myself. I can't fancy seeing myself in the _Philadelphia Ledger_ with this stuff tacked on to the end of my name." He collected the incriminating documents, placed them in the envelope, and came downstairs with it in his hand. Breakfast was an almost exact replica of the meal of yesterday; the pile of letters brought in by Church was rather smaller, however. These letters were a new difficulty, they would all have to be answered, the ones of yesterday, and the ones of to-day.