"My employer seems to have done things pretty thoroughly," he could not
help saying.

The shopman dug a compliment out of the remark.

"Our house has a reputation to maintain," he answered, "and Mr.
Fenshawe is one of our best and oldest customers."

There was no mention of Count von Kerber, which added a ripple to the
wave of astonishment in Royson's breast. He took his baggage to Charing
Cross in a cab, and deposited it there. Meanwhile, he learned from a
further scrutiny of the list that his own few belongings were hardly
wanted. He had not been so well equipped since he left Heidelberg to
rush to his mother's death-bed. Nevertheless, having already gathered
in a valise some books, photographs, letters, and other odds and ends,
he went to Brixton to obtain them.

While giving a farewell glance around his dingy room, an old envelope,
thrown aside overnight, reminded him of a half-formed idea, which
appealed to him strongly now that he knew his port of departure.

So he wrote a short letter:

Dear Mr. Forbes:

"You were kind to me four years ago, as kind as Sir Henry Royson would
permit you to be towards one who had wilfully and irreparably insulted
him. My feelings with regard to him have undergone no change. He may be
dead, for all I know, or care. But you, I suppose, are still the
trusted solicitor of the Cuddesham estate, and Sir Henry Royson, if