The Yellow House; Master of Men. E. Phillips Oppenheim

good morning.”

      He turned upon his heel, but I called him back.

      “Mr. Deville.”

      He stopped short and looked round. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “I am in a hurry.”

      “Oh, very well,” I answered. “I should be sorry to detain you. You dropped something when you took out your time-table, and it occurred to me that you might want it again. That is all.”

      He came back with three great strides. A square envelope, to which I was pointing, lay on the ground almost at my feet. As he stooped to pick it up I too glanced at it for the second time. A little exclamation escaped from my lips. He looked at me inquiringly.

      “Is anything the matter?” he asked.

      I shook my head.

      “Good morning Mr. Deville.”

      He hesitated for a moment. He was evidently desirous of knowing why I had uttered that exclamation. I did not choose to satisfy him.

      “I thought you made some remark,” he said. “What was it?”

      “It was nothing,” I told him. “You are in a hurry, I think you said. Don’t let me keep you.”

      He pocketed the envelope and strode away. Alice came out of the low window to me, looking after him with wide-open eyes.

      “What an extraordinary man!” she exclaimed.

      But I did not answer her immediately, I had found something else to think about. There was no possibility of any mistake. The handwriting upon the envelope which Mr. Deville had dropped was the same as that which had summoned my father to London.