less astonishment. Then I turned mechanically to the envelope.
"Robert Troves, Esq., The Grange, Campton," I read aloud, and looked at him again. What on earth could he mean?
"Robert Barridge Troves?" he inquired politely. For two or three weeks the politeness of his tone whenever he has had occasion to address me has been overwhelming.
"No, simply 'Robert Troves,'" I said. Still I guessed nothing.
"Ah, not Barridge, I thought," he replied in the same courteous tone, but with a gleam in his eye, and I was so mystified at the time that it was not until several days later that, reviewing the conversation, I longed to box his ears.
"This letter is from Sir Walter Bent, in reply to an article which I have recently published," I said, looking from him to the letter and back again at him in turn, for at the moment I could do nothing else in my surprise.
"In that case I am sorry I spoke," said Bobbie, resuming his breakfast. "Seeing that you appeared as though you could not quite make it out, I thought that it might possibly be for me."
He went on eating calmly, but I confess that I could not.
"Had you any reason to expect a communication from Sir Walter?" I said, after a few minutes' silence.
"I thought that there might be," he replied. "I left some things there the other day, and a letter about them."
I read the note through again, and I felt even less appetite than before.
"Pray what were the things, Bobbie?" I asked, and
