Mark how Fate proceeded on the wet and raw Sunday evening when Bruce Wright, at the instance of Mr. Manderton, quitted Robin Greve’s chambers in the Temple, leaving his friend and the detective alone together. To tell the truth, Bruce Wright was in no mood for facing the provincial gloom of a wet Sunday evening in London, nor did he find alluring the prospect of a suburban supper-party at the quiet house where he lived with his widowed mother and sisters in South Kensington. So, in an irresolute, unsettled frame of mind, he let himself drift down the Strand unable to bring himself to go home or, indeed, to form any plan. He crossed Trafalgar Square, a nocturne in yellow and black—lights reflected yellow in pavements shining dark with wet—and by and by found himself in Pall Mall. Here it was that Fate took a hand. At this moment it administered a preliminary jog to the kaleidoscope and brought the fragment labelled Bruce Wright into immediate proximity with the piece entitled Albert Edward Jeekes. As Bruce Wright came along Pall Mall, he saw Mr. Jeekes standing on the steps of his club. The little secretary appeared to be lost in thought, his chin thrust down on the crutch-handle of the umbrella he clutched to himself. So absorbed was he in his meditations that he did not observe Bruce Wright stop and regard him. It was not until our young man had touched him on the arm that he looked up with a start. “God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, “if it isn’t young Wright!” Now the sight of Jeekes had put a great idea into the head of our young friend. He had been more chagrined than he had let it appear to Robin Greve at his failure to recover the missing letter from the library at Harkings. To obtain the letter—or, at any rate, a copy of it—from Jeekes and to hand it to Robin Greve would, thought Bruce, restore his prestige as an amateur detective, at any rate in his own eyes. Moreover, a chat with Jeekes over the whole affair seemed a Heaven-sent exit from the _impasse_ of boredom into which he had drifted this wet Sunday evening. “How are you, Mr. Jeekes?” said Bruce briskly. (“Mr.” Jeekes was the form of address always accorded to the principal secretary in the Hartley Parrish establishment and Bruce resumed it instinctively.) “I was anxious to see you. I called in at the club this afternoon. Did you get my message?” The little secretary blinked at him through his _pince-nez_. “There have been so many messages about this shocking affair that really I forget ...” He sighed heavily. “Couldn’t I come in and have a yarn now?” Bruce spoke cajolingly. But Mr. Jeekes wrinkled his brow fussily. There was so much to do; he had had a long day; if Wright would excuse him ... “As a matter of fact,” explained Bruce with an eye on his man, “I wanted to see you particularly about a letter ...” “Some other time ... to-morrow ...” “Written on dark-blue paper ... you know, one of those letters H.P. made all the fuss about.”