room, gave the telegraph boy in the porch half a crown for his trouble, seized my hat and stick, hailed a hansom, and bade the cabman drive me with all possible speed to Waterloo. The man was a smart whip, and as he possessed a good horse we covered the ground in grand style. When we reached the station I paid him off, purchased my ticket, and ran on to the platform just in time to catch the 6.15 express. Punctually at five and twenty minutes to seven I left the train again at Surbiton, and proceeding into the station yard called another cab.
"Do you know Bundaberg House?" I asked the man, as I took my place in the vehicle.
He shook his head and called to one of his mates.
"Where's Bundaberg House, Bill?"
"Out on the Portsmouth Road nearly to Thames Ditton," was the reply. "That big house with the long brick wall next to Tiller's."
"I know now, sir!" said the man, climbing on to his box.
"Very well, then! An extra shilling if you hurry up," I cried, and away he went.
At the end of a short drive we pulled up before a pair of massive iron gates. A passer by threw them open for us and we drove in, passed round a shrubbery, and pulled up at the front door. I paid the cabman off and then, having watched him drive down and through the gates again, rang the bell. Next moment the door opened and a trim maid servant, without inquiring my name, invited me to enter. The front door opened on to a nicely built and furnished hall and from it I passed into a handsome drawing-room. It was empty but,
