He turned a little in his chair as a step sounded in the hallway without—­that is, Jimmie Dale caught the sound, muffled though it was by the heavy carpet.  Came then a knock upon the door.

“Come in,” invited Jimmie Dale.

It was old Jason, the butler.  The old man was visibly excited, as he extended a silver tray on which lay a letter.

Jimmie Dale’s hand reached quickly out, the long, slim tapering fingers closed upon the envelope—­but his eyes were on Jason significantly, questioningly.

“Yes, Master Jim,” said the old man, “I recognised it on the instant, sir.  After what you said, sir, last week, honouring me, I might say, to a certain extent with your confidence, though I’m sure I don’t know what it all means, I—­”

“Who brought it this time, Jason?” inquired Jimmie Dale quietly.

“Not the young person, begging your pardon, not the young lady, sir.  A shuffer in a big automobile.  ‘Your master at once,’ he says, and shoves the letter into my hand, and was off.”

“Very good, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale.  “You may go.”

The door closed.  Yes, it was from her—­it was the same texture of paper, there was the same rare, haunting fragrance clinging to it.

He tore the envelope open, and extracted a folded sheet of paper.  What was it this time?  To call the partnership off again until the present furor should have subsided once more—­or the skilfully sketched outline of a new adventure?  Which?  He glanced at the few lines written on the sheet, and lunged forward from his chair to his feet.  It was neither one nor the other.  It was—­

Jimmie Dale’s face was set, and an angry red surge swept his cheeks.  His lips moved, muttering audibly fragments of the letter, as he stared at it.

“—­incredible that you—­a heinous thing—­act instantly—­this is ruin—­”

For an instant—­a rare occurrence in Jimmie Dale’s life—­he stood like a man stricken, still staring at the sheet in his hand.  Then mechanically his fingers tore the paper into little pieces, and the little pieces into tiny shreds.  Anger fled, and a sickening sense of impotent dismay took its place; the red left his cheeks, and in its stead a grayness came.

“Act instantly!” The words seemed to leap at him, drum at his ears with constant repetition.  Act instantly!  But how?  How?  Then his brain—­that keen, clear, master brain—­sprang from stunned inaction into virility again.  Of course—­Carruthers!  It was in Carruthers’ line.

He stepped to the desk—­and paused with his hand extended to pick up the telephone.  How explain to Carruthers that he, Jimmie Dale, already knew what Carruthers might not yet have heard of, even though Carruthers would naturally be among the first to be in touch with such affairs!  No; that would never do.  Better get there himself at once and trust to—­

The telephone rang.

Jimmie Dale waited until it rang again, then he lifted the receiver from the hook.