“He is in your room, sir.  He seems very impatient.  He has been out two or three times to know how long I thought you would be.”

Francis passed down the stone passage and entered his room, a large, shady apartment at the back of the building.  To his surprise it was empty.  He was on the point of calling to his clerk when he saw that the writing-paper on his desk had been disturbed.  He went over and read a few lines written in a boy’s hasty writing: 

Dear Mr. Ledsam: 

I am in a very strange predicament and I have come to ask your advice.  You know my brother Andrew well, and you may remember playing tennis with me last year.  I am compelled—­

At that point the letter terminated abruptly.  There was a blot and a smudge.  The pen lay where it seemed to have rolled -on the floor.  The ink was not yet dry.  Francis called to his clerk.

“Angrave,” he said, “Mr. Wilmore is not here.”

The clerk looked around in obvious surprise.

“It isn’t five minutes since he came out to my office, sir!” he exclaimed.  “I heard him go back again afterwards.”

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps he decided not to wait and you didn’t hear him go by.”

Angrave shook his head.

“I do not see how he could have left the place without my hearing him, sir,” he declared.  “The door of my office has been open all the time, and I sit opposite to it.  Besides, on these stone floors one can hear any one so distinctly.”

“Then what,” Francis asked, “has become of him?”

The clerk shook his head.

“I haven’t any idea, sir,” he confessed.

Francis plunged into his work and forgot all about the matter.  He was reminded of it, however, at luncheon-time, when, on entering the dining-room of the club, he saw Andrew Wilmore seated alone at one of the small tables near the wall.  He went over to him at once.

“Hullo, Andrew,” he greeted him, “what are you doing here by yourself?”

“Bit hipped, old fellow,” was the depressed reply.  “Sit down, will you?”

Francis sat down and ordered his lunch.

“By-the-bye,” he said, “I had rather a mysterious visit this morning from your brother Reggie.”

Wilmore stared at him for a moment, half in relief, half in amazement.

“Good God, Francis, you don’t say so!” he exclaimed.  “How was he?  What did he want?  Tell me about it at once?  We’ve been worried to death about the boy.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t see him,” Francis explained.  “He arrived before I reached my rooms—­as you know, I don’t live there—­waited some time, began to write me this note,”—­drawing the sheet of paper from his pocket—­“and when I got there had disappeared without leaving a message or anything.”

Wilmore adjusted his pince nez with trembling fingers.  Then he read the few lines through.