The letter which was typewritten, even to the signature, ran:

'DEAR MR. NAYLOR,--

"I hope to call upon you on Thursday afternoon at four o'clock. I
regret that unforseen circumstances have prevented me from giving
myself this pleasure before.

"Yours very truly,
"J. VAN HELDER."

With a grumble in his throat Mr. Naylor walked out of the dining-room,
across the hall and into his study. Closing and locking the door he
went over to his writing-table, and seemed to collapse into rather than
sit on the chair. He was oblivious to everything except the scrap of
paper before him. The cloud upon his brow seemed to intensify, his
face became more cruel. The Mr. Naylor of Streatham, patriot,
philanthropist and good citizen, had vanished, giving place to a man in
whose heart was anger and fear.

At the end of five minutes he drew towards him a small metal tray.
Taking a match from a stand, he struck it and deliberately setting
light to the paper, held it while it burned. When the flame seared his
fingers, he placed the whole upon the metal dish, scowling at the paper
as it writhed and crackled in its death agony. He then proceeded to
burn the envelope. When both were reduced to twisted shapes of carbon,
he opened a drawer, took from it a duster and pressed it down upon the
metal plate, reducing the contents to black powder.

Picking up the tray he carried it over to the grate, emptied the powder
into the fireplace, wiped the tray and replaced it upon the table,
thrusting the duster back into the drawer. He then sank once more into
his chair, conscious that the morning had begun ill.

Ten minutes later he rose, unlocked the door and went out into the
hall. He took his hat from the stand and brushed it carefully.
Picking up his gloves and umbrella, he gave a final look round, then
composing his features for the outside world, he opened the door and
passed out into Apthorpe Road.

For such of his neighbours as he encountered he had a cheery word, a
lifting of his hat, or a wave of the hand. Housewives would sigh
enviously as they saw Mr. Naylor pass genially on his way. He was
always the same, they told themselves, remembering with a little pang
the vagaries of their own husbands.

Before his return to "The Cedars" for lunch, Mr. Naylor with
unaccustomed emphasis foretold the doom of the Government unless it
immediately rushed a measure through Parliament for the internment of
all aliens. He was no