At this point he brought his horse to a sudden standstill. Before him, leaning over a gate with his back to the road, he saw a man whom he recognised at once. It was Mr. Stretton, the tutor. He had taken off his hat, and his grey hair looked very remarkable upon his youthful figure. Hugo walked his horse slowly forward, but the beat of the animal's feet on the hard road aroused the tutor from his reverie. He glanced round, saw Hugo approaching, and then, without haste, but without hesitation, quietly opened the gate, and made his way into the field. Hugo stopped again, and watched him as he crossed the field. He was very curious concerning this stranger. He felt as if he ought to recognise him, and he could not imagine why. Mr. Stretton was almost out of sight, and Hugo was just turning away, when his eye fell upon a piece of white paper on the ground beside the gate. It looked like a letter. Had the tutor dropped it as he loitered in the road? Hugo was off his horse instantly, and had the paper in his hand. It was a letter written on thin, foreign paper, in a small, neat, foreign hand; it was addressed to Mr. John Stretton, and it was written in Italian. To Hugo, Italian was as familiar as English, and a momentary glance showed him that this letter contained information that might be valuable to him. He could not read it on the road; the owner of the letter might discover his loss and turn back at any moment to look for it. He put it carefully into his pocket, mounted his horse again, and made the best of his way to Netherglen. He was so late in arriving that he had little time to devote to the letter before dinner. But when Mrs. Luttrell had kissed him and said good-night, when he, with filial courtesy, had conducted her to the door of her bed-room, and taken his final leave of her and of Angela on the landing, then he made his way to the library, rang for more lights, more coal, spirits and hot water, and prepared to devote a little time to the deciphering of the letter which Mr. John Stretton had been careless enough to lose. He was not fond of the library. It was next to the room in which they had laid Richard Luttrell when they brought him home after the "accident." It looked out on the same stretch of garden; the rose trees that had tapped mournfully at that other window, when Hugo was compelled by Brian to pay a last visit to the room where the dead man lay, had sent out long shoots that reached the panes of the library window, too. When there was any breeze, those branches would go on tap, tapping against the glass like the sound of a human hand. Hugo hated the noise of that ghostly tapping: he hated the room itself, and the long, dark corridor upon which it opened, but it was the most convenient place in the house for his purpose, and he therefore made use of it.