“He got into the most paralytic rage,” said Bruce. “I have never seen a man in such an absolute frenzy of passion. He went right off the hooks, just like that! He fairly put the wind up me. For a minute I thought he was going to kill me. He snatched the letter out of my hand, called me every name under the sun, and finally shouted: ‘You’re fired, d’ye hear? I won’t employ men who disobey my orders! Get out of this before I do you a mischief! I went straight off. And I never saw him again ...” Robin Greve looked very serious. But his face displayed no emotion as he asked: “And what was in the letter for him to make such a fuss about?” The boy shrugged his shoulders. “That was the extraordinary part of it. The letter was perfectly harmless. It was an ordinary business letter from a firm in Holland ...” “In Holland?” cried Greve. “Did you say in Holland? Tell me the name! No, wait, see if I can remember. ‘Van’ something—‘Speck’ or ‘Spike’ ...” “I remember the name perfectly,” answered Bruce, rather puzzled by the other’s sudden outburst; “it was Van der Spyck and Co. of Rotterdam. We had a good deal of correspondence with them ...” Robin Greve had opened his cigarette-case and drawn from it a creased square of blue paper folded twice across. Unfolding it, he held up the sheet he had found in the library at Harkings. “Is that the paper those letters were written on?” he asked. Bruce took the sheet from him. He held it up to the light. “Why, yes,” came the prompt answer. “I’d know it in a minute. Look, it’s the same water-mark. ‘Egmont.’ Where did you get hold of it?” “Bruce,” said Robin gravely, without answering the question, “we’re getting into deep water, boy!” CHAPTER XV. SHADOWS Robert Greve stood for an instant in silence by the window of his rooms. His fingers hammered out a tattoo on the pane. His eyes were fixed on the windows of the chambers across the court. But they did not take in the pleasant prospect of the tall, ivy-framed casements in their mellow setting of warm red brick. He was trying to fix a mental photograph of a letter—typewritten on paper of dark slatey blue—which he had seen on Hartley Parrish’s desk in the library at Harkings on the previous afternoon. Prompted by Bruce Wright, he could now recall the heading clearly. “ELIAS VAN DER SPYCK & Co., GENERAL IMPORTERS, ROTTERDAM,” stood printed before his eyes as plainly as though he still held the typewritten sheet in front of him. But the mind plays curious tricks. Robin’s brain had registered the name; yet it recorded no impression of the contents of the letter. Beyond the fact that it dealt in plain commercial fashion with some shipments or other, he could recall no particular whatever of it. “But where did you get hold of this sheet of paper?” Bruce Wright’s voice broke in impatiently behind him. “I’m most frightfully interested to know ...”