with him. He asked me, in case of a certain eventuality———"
He interrupted me with an almost imperceptible smile—amused, I think, at my precision of language.
"What eventuality?"
"In case he was not back at his hotel by midnight, I was to bring and give you this note from him," I answered, and laid the letter on his desk. "He was not back—so I came straight to you."
He picked up and opened the letter and began to read it; from where I stood I could see that it covered three sides of a sheet of the hotel notepaper. There was not a sign of anything—surprise, perplexity, wonder—on the man's face as he read—and he only read the thing over once. Then he folded the letter, put it in his desk, and turned to me.
"Mr. Alvery Craye, I think?" he asked.
"Yes," said I.
"Do you know what's in this letter, Mr. Craye?" he went on. "Did Mr. Parslewe tell you its contents?"
"No," I replied. "But he said I could
