RETURNING to his office, Mr. Troy discovered, among the correspondence
that was waiting for him, a letter from the very person whose welfare
was still the uppermost subject in his mind. Isabel Miller wrote in
these terms:

"Dear Sir--My aunt, Miss Pink, is very desirous of consulting you
professionally at the earliest opportunity. Although South Morden is
within little more than half an hour's railway ride from London, Miss
Pink does not presume to ask you to visit her, being well aware of the
value of your time. Will you, therefore, be so kind as to let me know
when it will be convenient to you to receive my aunt at your office in
London? Believe me, dear sir, respectfully yours, ISABEL MILLER.
P.S.--I am further instructed to say that the regrettable event at Lady
Lydiard's house is the proposed subject of the consultation. The Lawn,
South Morden. Thursday."

Mr. Troy smiled as he read the letter. "Too formal for a young girl!" he
said to himself. "Every word of it has been dictated by Miss Pink."
He was not long in deciding what course he should take. There was a
pressing necessity for cautioning Isabel, and here was his opportunity.
He sent for his head clerk, and looked at his list of engagements for
the day. There was nothing set down in the book which the clerk was
not quite as well able to do as the master. Mr. Troy consulted his
railway-guide, ordered his cab, and caught the next train to South Mord
en.

South Morden was then (and remains to this day) one of those primitive
agricultural villages, passed over by the march of modern progress,
which are still to be found in the near neighborhood of London. Only the