"No--none," replied Lauriston. "And scarcely an acquaintance. I've kept to
myself--working hard: I've had no time--nor inclination, either--to make
friends. Here's the house where I lodge--it's not much of a place, but
come in."

They had reached Mrs. Flitwick's house by that time, and Mrs. Flitwick
herself was in the narrow, shabby passage as they entered. She immediately
produced two letters.

"Here's two letters for you, Mr. Lauriston," she said, with a sharp glance
at Ayscough. "One of 'em's a registered--I did sign for it. So I kept 'em
myself, instead of sending 'em up to your room."

"Thank you, Mrs. Flitwick," said Lauriston. He took the letters, saw that
the writing on the registered envelope was his old friend John Purdie's,
and that the other letter was from the magazine to which he had sold his
stories, and turned to Ayscough. "Come up to my room," he continued.
"We'll talk up there."

Ayscough followed him up to his room--once inside, and the door shut,
Lauriston tore open the letter from the magazine, and extracted a printed
form and a cheque for twenty guineas. He took one look at them and thrust
them into the detective's hands.

"There!" he said, with a sigh of mingled relief and triumph. "There's a
proof of the truth of one statement I made to you! That's the expected
cheque I told you of. Excuse me while I look at the other letter."

Out of the registered letter came a bank-note--for twenty pounds--and a