"You're very quiet to-night," said Million. "Didn't you enjoy your afternoon out?" "Oh, yes. Quite, thank you," I said rather absently. I was longing to have the room to myself, with peace and quiet to put away Miss Million's things--and to think in. To think over "my afternoon out," with its unexpected encounter, its unexpected conversation! And to meditate over that other surprise that I'd found waiting for me at the end of it. At last Miss Million was dressed. I put the beautiful mother-o'-pearl, satin-lined wrap upon her shoulders, sturdily made against the flaring, flimsy, cerise-coloured ninon. "Needn't wait up for me," said my mistress, bright-eyed as a child with tremulous excitement over this new expedition. "I'll wake you if I can't manage to undo myself. Don't suppose I shall get back until 'the divil's dancin' hour,' as that Mr. Burke calls it. He'll be waitin' for me now, downstairs." Really that young man lives a life of contrasts! Tea with Miss Million's maid! Dinner and supper with Miss Million herself! I wonder which he considers the more amusing bit of light opera? "Pity I can't take you with me to-night, really ... seems so lonely-like for you, left in this great place and all," said the kind-hearted little Million at the door. "Got something to read, have you?" "Oh, yes, thanks!" I laughed and nodded. "I have got something to read." CHAPTER XVI A WORD OF WARNING AND as the door shut behind my mistress I took that "something to read" out of its hiding-place behind my belt and my frilly apron-bib. It's the letter that was waiting for me when I came in. I've hardly had time to grasp the contents of it yet. It's addressed in a small, precise, masculine hand: "To MISS SMITH, "c/o Miss Million, "Hotel Cecil." But inside it begins: "My Dear Miss Lovelace:--" And then it goes on: "I am putting another name on the envelope, because I think that this is how you wish to be addressed for business purposes. I hope you will not be offended, or consider that I am impertinent in what I am going to say." It sounds like the beginning of some scathing rebuke to the recipient of the letter, doesn't it? But I don't think it's that. The letter goes on: "Am writing to ask you whether you will allow me the privilege of seeing you somewhere for a few minutes' private conversation? It is on a matter that is of importance." The last sentence is underlined, and looks most curiosity-rousing in consequence: "If you would allow me to know when I might see you, and where, I should be very greatly obliged. Believe me, "Yours very truly, Reginald Brace."