“What do you want?” he said, sharply. I explained, and he took the note from me, listening to the details of my commission, and making a note in his pocket-book. “I will see to this for you if I can,” he said. “I will not promise, because I shall have other and more important matters to take up my attention. In the meantime, I should be glad to be left undisturbed for an hour. I have some letters to write.” I left him at once, and I heard the key turn in the door after me. At half-past three a fly arrived from the Junction, and he appeared upon the step carrying a small black bag in his hand. “I shall be back,” he said, “on Friday. Goodbye, Alice; goodbye, Kate.” We kissed him, and he got up in the carriage and drove off. Alice and I remained upon the doorstep looking at one another. We both felt that there was something mysterious about his sudden departure. “Have you any idea what it means?” she asked me. I shook my head. “He has not told me anything,” I said. “Didn’t you say that he used to go to London often when you were at Belchester?” Alice looked very grave. “Yes,” she said; “and that is one reason why we left the place. The people did not like it. He went away very often; and, indeed, old Colonel Dacre wrote to the Bishop about it.” “He was a meddlesome old duffer,” I remarked, leaning against the door-post with my face turned towards the Yellow House. “He was rather a busybody,” Alice admitted; “but I am not surprised that he wrote to the Bishop. A good many other people used to complain about it. You were not in Belchester very long, so of course you knew nothing about it.” “And do you mean to say that you have no idea at all why he went so often? You don’t know what he did there, or anything, not even where he stayed?” “Not the shred of an idea,” Alice declared. “It used to worry me a great deal, and when I came here I hoped it was all over. Now it seems as though it were all beginning again!” “I believe,” I said, “that I know what took him up to London to-day.” “Really!” Alice cried, eagerly. I nodded. “It was a letter.” “One that he had this morning?” “Yes.” “How do you know?” “Morris gave me the letters through the window,” I answered. “There were only two for father. One was from Mr. Hewitt--that was about the schools you know, and the other was from somewhere in South America. It was that letter which took him to London.” She looked at me with knitted brows, and a general expression of perplexity. “From South America! I never heard father speak of any one there.” “From South America,” I repeated. “It was a large square envelope, and the writing was very fine and delicate.” “I wonder,” Alice suggested, thoughtfully, “whether we have any relatives out there of whom we do not know. It may be that. Perhaps they are poor, and--” I interrupted her.