“The desk,” replied Madge, going over to it. “it’s the most likely place.”

“Don’t think so,” said Calton, shaking his head.  “If, as you say, Fitzgerald is a careless man, he would not have troubled to put it there.  However; perhaps we’d better look.”

The desk was very untidy ("Just like Brian,” as Madge remarked)—­full of paid and unpaid bills, old letters, play-bills, ball-programmes, and withered flowers.

“Reminiscences of former flirtations,” said Calton, with a laugh, pointing to these.

“I should not wonder,” retorted Miss Frettlby, coolly.  “Brian always was in love with some one or other; but you know what Lytton says, ‘There are many counterfeits, but only one Eros,’ so I can afford to forget these things.”

The letter, however, was not to be found in the desk, nor was it in the sitting-room.  They tried the bedroom, but with no better result.  Madge was about to give up the search in despair, when suddenly Calton’s eye fell on the waste-paper basket, which, by some unaccountable reason, they had over-looked.  The basket was half-full, in fact; more than half, and, on looking at it, a sudden thought struck the lawyer.  He rang the bell, and presently Mrs. Sampson made her appearance.

“How long has that waste-paper basket been standing like that?” he asked, pointing to it.

“It bein’ the only fault I ’ad to find with ’im,” said Mrs. Sampson, “‘e bein’ that untidy that ’e a never let me clean it out until ’e told me pussonly.  ’E said as ’ow ’e throwed things into it as ’e might ’ave to look up again; an’ I ’aven’t touched it for more nor six weeks, ‘opin’ you won’t think me a bad ‘ousekeeper, it bein’ ‘is own wish—­bein’ fond of litter an’ sich like.”

“Six weeks,” repeated Calton, with a look at Madge.  “Ah, and he got the letter four weeks ago.  Depend upon it, we shall find it there.”

Madge gave a cry, and falling on her knees, emptied the basket out on the floor, and both she and Calton were soon as busy among the fragments of paper as though they were rag-pickers.

“’Opin they ain’t orf their ’eads,” murmured Mrs. Sampson, as she went to the door, “but it looks like it, they bein’—­”

Suddenly a cry broke from Madge, as she drew out of the mass of paper a half-burnt letter, written on thick and creamy-looking paper.

“At last,” she cried, rising off her knees, and smoothing it out; “I knew he had not destroyed it.”

“Pretty nearly, however,” said Calton, as his eye glanced rapidly over it; “it’s almost useless as it is.  There’s no name to it.”

He took it over to the window, and spread it out upon the table.  It was dirty, and half burnt, but still it was a clue.  Here is a FAC-simile of the letter:—­

“There is not much to be gained from that, I’m afraid,” said Madge, sadly.  “It shows that he had an appointment—­but where?”

Calton did not answer, but, leaning his head on his hands, stared hard at the paper.  At last he jumped up with a cry—­