movement as if to spring forward, but controlled himself. "Tottenham!" he shouted, in a strident voice.
"Yes, sir!" said Tottenham, halting.
"Stand where you are. For whom is that note?"
"For Mr. Clement Searle," said the butler, staring straight before him as if to discredit a suspicion of his having read the direction.
"Who gave it to you?"
"Mrs. Horridge, sir." (The housekeeper.)
"Who gave it Mrs. Horridge?"
There was on Tottenham's part just an infinitesimal pause before replying.
"My dear sir," broke in Searle, completely sobered by the sense of violated courtesy, "is n't that rather my business?"
"What happens in my house is my business; and mighty strange things seem to be happening." Mr. Searle had become exasperated to that point that, a rare thing for an Englishman, he compromised himself before a servant.
"Bring me the note!" he cried. The butler obeyed.
"Really, this is too much!" cried my companion, affronted and helpless.
I was disgusted. Before Mr. Searle had time to take the note, I possessed myself of it. "If you have no regard for your sister," I said, "let a stranger, at
