“No; I did not ask for the carving-knife, Alice. I asked for lights; and you will be good enough to bring them. I am your master, you know, in every sense of the word; and you are aware that you had better both hold your tongue and keep your hands off me--and off drink. Fetch the lamp!” She left the room cowed, like a beaten dog. She returned, set the lamp silently on the table, and was gone. Then he noticed a letter, which lay on the escritoire, and was addressed to him. It was a rather peculiar letter to look at, or rather the envelope was peculiar; for, though bordered with heavy black, it was stamped, where the seal should have been, with a strange device in gold and colors--a brown bun, in a glory of gilt rays. “Mrs. St John Deloraine,” he said, taking it up. “How in the world did _she_ find me out? Well, she is indeed a friend that sticketh closer than a brother--a deal closer than Surbiton, anyhow.” Lord Surbiton was the elder brother of Mr. Cranley, and bore the second title of the family. “I don’t suppose there is another woman in London,” he thought to himself, “that has not heard all about the row at the Cockpit, and that would write to me.” Then he tore the chromatic splendors of the device on the envelope, and read the following epistle: “Early English Bunhouse, “Chelsea, Friday. “My dear Mr. Cranley, “Where are you hiding, or yachting, you wandering man? I can hear nothing of you from anyone--nothing _good_, and you know I never believe anything _else_. Do come and see me, at the old Bunhouse here, and tell me about _yourself_” --(“She _has_ heard,” he muttered) --“and help me in a little difficulty. Our housekeeper (you know we are strictly _blue ribbon--a cordon bleu_, I call her) has become engaged to a _plumber_, and she is leaving us. _Can_ you recommend me another? I know how interested you are (in spite of your wicked jokes) in our little enterprise. And we also want a girl, to be under the housekeeper, and keep the accounts. Surely you will come to see me, whether you can advise me or not. “Yours very truly, “Mary St. John Deloraine” “Idiot!” murmured Mr. Cranley, as he finished reading this document; and then he added, “By Jove! it’s lucky, too. I’ll put these two infernal women off on _her_, and Alice will soon do for the girl, if she once gets at the drink. She’s dangerous, by Jove, when she has been drinking. Then the Law will do for Alice, and all will be plain sailing in smooth waters.” CHAPTER IX.--Mrs. St. John Deloraine