busy, and there seemed to be a more than
usually heavy run on their wares.

Surely they were shouting a familiar name, Mary thought. She came out of
her brown study and listened. It was something to do with Stephen
Richford. Surely there could not be two men of the same name. No; it
must be the same.

"Startling disclosures in the City. Collapse of a great firm. Richford &
Co. go down. Warrant out for the arrest of the senior partner. Flight of
Stephen Richford."

Mary listened in amazement. Her brother knew a great deal about this
man; he had always been spoken of as a wealthy individual. And here was
Beatrice Darryll's husband a criminal and a fugitive from justice.
Nobody appeared to be talking about anything else; the name was on the
streets. Mary could hear it everywhere. A bent man, with a clerical hat
and glasses and an Inverness cape, hurried by the girl as she came out
of the hotel. Even this elderly gentleman seemed interested.

He pushed his way into the hotel and feebly ascended the stairs as if he
had business there. In so large a place every respectably dressed man
could pass in and out without incurring suspicion. No hall porter would
stop any visitor and ask his business, so that the elderly clergyman
passed unchallenged. As he came to the door of Beatrice's room he
hesitated for a moment, and then passed in and closed the door behind
him.

"Nobody here!" he muttered. "Maid gone off on her own business, I
suppose. Well, I can sit down here and wait till Beatrice comes back.
What's this? A letter addressed by some unknown correspondent to Mrs.
Richford. By Jove! Sartoris's address on the flap. Now, what does this
little game mean? And who wrote the letter? My dear Sartoris, if I only
had you here for the next five minutes!"

The man's face suddenly convulsed with rage, his fists were clenched
passionately. He paced up and down the room with the letter in his hand.

"This may tell me something," he said; "this may be a clue. I'll open
it."

As frequently happens with thick envelopes, the gum was defective, and
the back of a penknife served to open the cover without in any way
betraying the fact that the cover had been tampered with. A puzzled
frown crossed the face of the thief.

"Berrington!" he muttered; "Berrington! Oh, I know. That beast, eh? Now
considering that he is more or less of a prisoner in the house of my
dear friend Sartoris, why does he write like this to Beatrice? Damn
Sartoris;