"Still, you know what lawyers are when a man dies intestate! There will be nothing left worth scraping up if we don’t provide something of a documentary nature for them to bite on. Didn’t they find anything in his pockets, when they—found him?" "Nothing but his cigarette-case, and Marjorie’s last letter." We were standing in the outer library of Lord Eskerley’s great house in Curzon Street. It was a bright morning in May, and the sun, streaming between the heavy window-curtains, made the rest of the room look more than usually funereal by comparison. At one end, double doors opened into his lordship’s _sanctum sanctorum_, where few but the faithful Meadows ever presumed to track him. At the other yawned a great empty fireplace, with a curiously carved mantelpiece, over which hung Millais’ radiant portrait of Lady Eskerley as a bride. Beside the fire-place stood the secretary’s own particular writing-table. To the wall just above it was fixed an incongruously modern-looking telephone switch-board. Lord Eskerley’s eye fell on this; and he was off in a moment down one of his usual by-paths. "Private wire, and so on!" he explained. "Meadows had it put in. He just pushes a few buttons, and puts a plug in a hole; and I can telephone not only to the outside world but direct to the office, or the War Cabinet, or to my own bathroom. Wonderful invention! Wonderful fellow! It’s the devil, though, when he goes out for a walk: I’m no good at it myself. I tried to ring up the P.M. the other day, and found myself breathing private and confidential war secrets to my own laundry-maid. By the way, have you looked through those things yet? You may find what you want there." He pointed to the corner of the room, where a mud-stained, sun-bleached Wolseley valise of green Willesden canvas lay rolled and strapped. It had once been Roy’s, and had arrived the previous day, forwarded to me as next-of-kin, bearing that pitiful designation: "_Deceased Officers Effects_." "I will go through it this morning," I said, "and report. Eric is coming along; he’ll help me. By the way, how is Marjorie to-day? Eric is sure to want to know." "Why should he want to know—eh? Why this solicitude?" "I don’t know. He always does. Why shouldn’t he take an interest in her, like the rest of us?" But plainly my old friend was not quite satisfied. "To take an interest in a beautiful young widow is right and proper," he said—"especially if you happen to be an eligible D.S.O. But not too premature an interest, please! Bethune is a gallant soldier; but fine feeling never was his _forte_." Suddenly the old man blazed up. "Good God! Has he realised that the poor child doesn’t even know she is a widow?"