"What was you thinking, Benjamin, my son?" he said softly. "The Miss Thurwell case is plain before us, is it not? There is nothing fresh, is there? No fresh business, eh, my son?" Mr. Benjamin started, and abandoned his reflections. "No; nothing fresh, dad. It was the Thurwell affair I was thinking of. Give me the keys, will you?" Mr. Levy leaned back in his chair and produced from his trousers pocket a jingling bunch of keys. Mr. Benjamin took them in thoughtful silence, and, opening the safe, drew out a packet of faded letters tied up with ribbon. From these he selected one, and carefully replaced the rest. "Those letters again," remarked his fond parent, chuckling. "Take care of them, Benjamin, take care of them. They was worth their weight in gold to us." "They're worth a great deal more than that," remarked Mr. Benjamin carelessly. "There's only one thing, dad, that puzzles me a bit." "It must be a rum thing, my boy, that does that," his fond parent remarked admiringly. "I never praise undeservedly, but I must say this, Benjamin, you've managed this Thurwell affair marvelously--marvelously! Come, let me see what it is that is too deep for you." He rose and looked over his son's shoulder at the letter which he was reading--one thin sheet of foreign note paper, covered with closely written lines of faint, angular writing, and emitting even now a delicate musky scent. "What is it, Benjamin--what is it?" His son laid his finger on a sentence toward the close of the letter, and read it aloud:-- "What that fear has been to me, and what it has grown into during my sad lonely life, I cannot hope to make you understand. Always those terrible words of vengeance ring in my ears as I heard them last. They seem to roll over sea and land, and in the middle of the night, and out in the sunlit street, I seem to hear them still. It is not you I fear, Bernard, so much as him!" Mr. Levy listened, and nodded approvingly. "All is plain there, Benjamin, I think. The meaning is quite clear." Mr. Benjamin laid his finger upon the last sentence. "What do you make of that, dad?" he asked. Mr. Levy adjusted his spectacles and read it slowly. "'It is not for you I fear, Bernard, so much as him.' Tut, tut, that's simple enough," he declared. "This woman, whoever she may be, is afraid of a meeting between Sir Geoffrey Kynaston and Mr. Bernard Maddison, to give him his right name, and she remarks that it is for him she fears, and not for Sir Geoffrey. Quite right, too, considering the affectionate tone of these letters." "Yes, I suppose that's it," Mr. Benjamin remarked in an absent tone, folding up the letter, and putting it back amongst the rest. Mr. Levy watched him narrowly, and returned to his desk with a sense of injury. His son--his Benjamin--had discovered something which he was not going to confide to the parental ear. It was a blow.