"You're a little overwrought, Gerald," Mr. Fentolin declared.
"Sit quietly in my easy-chair for a few moments. Walt until I have
examined Mr. Dunster's belongings. Ah! Meekins has been prompt,
indeed."

There was a stealthy tap at the door. Meekins entered with the
small dressing-case in his hand. He brought it over to his master's
chair. Mr. Fentolin pointed to the floor.

"Open it there, Meekins," he directed. "I fancy that the pocket-book
you are carrying will prove more interesting. We will just glance
through the dressing-case first. Thank you. Yes, you can lay the
things upon the floor. A man of Spartan-like life, I should imagine
Mr. Dunster. A spare toothbrush, though, I am glad to see. Pyjamas
of most unattractive pattern. And what a taste in shirts! Nothing
but wearing apparel and singularly little of that, I fancy."

The dressing-case was empty, its contents upon the floor. Mr.
Fentolin held out his hand and took the pocket-book which Meekins
had been carrying. It was an ordinary morocco affair, similar to
those issued by American banking houses to enclose letters of credit.
One side of it was filled with notes. Mr. Fentolin withdrew them
and glanced them through.

"Dear me!" he murmured. "No wonder our friend engages special
trains! He travels like a prince, indeed. Two thousand pounds, or
near it, in this little compartment. And here, I see, a letter, a
sealed letter with no address."

He held it out in front of him. It was a long commercial envelope