“This letter was not from a poor person,” I declared, confidently. “The notepaper, or rather the envelope, was expensive, and in very good style. I believe there was a crest on the envelope.” “Still,” Alice remarked, “we cannot be certain--especially if the letter was from South America--that it was the cause of his going to London.” “I think we can,” I answered. “In one corner there were three words, written very small--”London about fifteenth.” We exchanged glances. “To-day is the fifteenth,” Alice remarked. I nodded. It was true. My sister’s eyes were full of trouble. “I wonder,” she said, softly, “what will be the end of it all? Sometimes I am almost afraid.” And I, who knew more than she did, was also troubled. Already I was growing to fear my father. Always he seemed to move amongst us with an air of stern repression, as though he were indeed playing a part, wearing always a mask, and as though his real life lay somewhere else, somewhere in the past, or--worst still--somewhere in the present, far away from our quiet little village. I thought of all the stories I had read of men who had lived double lives--men with a double personality one side of whose life and actions must necessarily be a wholesale lie. The fear of something of this sort in connection with my father was gradually laying chill hold upon me. He fulfilled his small parish obligations, and carried himself through the little routine of our domestic life with a stern air of thoughtful abstraction, as though he were performing in a mechanical manner duties contemptible, trivial, and uninteresting, for some secret and hidden reason. Was there another life? My own eyes had shown me that there was another man. Twice had I seen this mask raised; first when he had come face to face with Bruce Deville, and again when he had found me talking with our curious neighbor beneath the roof of the Yellow House. Another man had leaped out then. Who was he? What was he? Did he exist solely in the past, or was there a present--worse still, a future--to be developed? We were standing side by side at the window. Suddenly there was a diversion. Our gate was flung open. A tall figure came up the drive towards the house. Alice watched it with curiosity. “Here is a visitor,” she remarked. “We had better go away.” I recognized him, and I remained where I was. After that little scene upon the lawn only last Sunday I certainly had not expected to see Mr. Bruce Deville again within the confines of our little demesne. Yet there he was, walking swiftly up the gravel walk--tall, untidy, and with that habitual contraction of the thick eyebrows which was almost a scowl. I stepped out to meet him, leaving Alice at the window. He regarded us coldly, and raised his cap with the stiffest and most ungracious of salutes. “Is Mr. Ffolliot in?” he asked me. “I should like to have a word with him.” I ignored his question for a moment. “Good morning, Mr. Deville,” I said, quietly.