This was horrible. It seemed to convey indirectly the impression that I knew why the Thorolds had disappeared, and where they had gone. More, a casual reader might easily have been led to suppose that I was implicated in some dark plot, involving the death of the butler. I appeared in the light of a man of mystery, the friend of a man who might, for aught I knew, be some criminal, but whose name--this certainly interested me--he apparently intended should remain secret. I turned over the page. Good heavens--my portrait! And the one portrait of myself that of all others I detested. Anybody looking at that particular portrait would at once say: "What a villainous man; he looks like a criminal!" I remembered now, rather bitterly, making that very observation when the proofs had been sent to me by the photographer, and how my friends had laughed and said it was "quite true," and that it resembled a portrait in a Sunday paper of "the accused in Court." There were also portraits of Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, and a pretty picture of Vera, the best that had ever been taken of her. But the one portrait that I felt ought to have been reproduced, though it was not, was one of the bearded giant, who had given his name as Davies. Thoroughly disgusted, I turned without appetite to my tepid breakfast. I had hardly begun to eat, when the telephone at my bedside rang. Was that Mr. Richard Ashton's flat? asked a voice. Might the speaker speak to him? Mr. Ashton was speaking. "Oh, this was the office of _The Morning_. The editor would greatly appreciate Mr. Ashton's courtesy if he would receive one of his representatives. He would not detain him long." I gulped a mouthful of tea, then explained that I would sooner not be interviewed. I was extremely sorry, I said, that my name had been dragged into this extraordinary affair. The news-editor was persistent. I was firm. I always am firm when I am at the end of a telephone, but rarely on other occasions. Finally I rang off. A brief interval. Then another ring. Well, what? "The editor of the--" "No," I answered as politely as I could. "I am extremely sorry. You see, I have just refused to be interviewed by _The Morning_, and it would hardly be fair to that journal if... Oh, _The Morning_ was a paper of no consequence, was it? That made a difference, of course, but still... no... no... I was really sorry... I could not... I..." I hung up the receiver. As I did so my man entered. There were four gentlemen downstairs, also a photographer. They wanted to know if-- "Tell them," I interrupted, "that I cannot see them. And, John--" "Sir?" "I am not at home to anybody--anybody at all. You understand?" "Quite, sir."