Peter Ruff laid the paper down upon his desk and looked steadily at abox of India-rubber bands. Almost his fingers, as he parted with thenewspaper, had seemed to be shaking. His eyes were certainly set inan unusually retrospective stare. Who was this who sought to probe hispast, to renew an acquaintance with a dead personality? "M" could be butone person! What did she want of him? Was it possible that, after all,a little flame of sentiment had been kept alight in her bosom, too--thatin the quiet moments her thoughts had turned towards him as his hadso often done to her? Then a sudden idea--an ugly thought--drove thetenderness from his face. She was no longer Maud Barnes--she was Mrs.John Dory, and John Dory was his enemy! Could there be treachery lurkingbeneath those simple lines? Things had not gone well with John Dorylately. Somehow or other, his cases seemed to have crumpled into dust.He was no longer held in the same esteem at headquarters. Yet could evenJohn Dory stoop to such means as these?
He turned in his chair.
"Miss Brown," he said, "please take your pencil."
"I am quite ready, sir," she answered.
He marked the advertisement with a ring and passed it to her.
"Reply to that as follows," he said:
DEAR SIR:
I notice in the Daily Mail of this morning that you are enquiringthrough the "personal" column for the whereabouts of Mr. SpencerFitzgerald. That gentleman has been a client of mine, and I have been inoccasional communication with him. If you will inform me of the natureof your business, I may, perhaps, be able to put you in touch with Mr.Fitzgerald. You will understand, however, that, under the circumstances,I shall require proofs of your good faith.
Truly yours,
PETER RUFF.
Miss Brown glanced through the advertisement and closed her notebookwith a little snap.
"Did you say--'Dear Sir'?" she asked.
"Certainly!" Peter Ruff answered.
"And you really mean," she continued, with obvious disapproval, "that Iam to send this?"
"I do not usually waste my time," Peter Ruff reminded her, mildly, "bygiving you down communications destined for the waste-paper basket."
She turned unwillingly to her machine.
"Mr. Fitzgerald is very much better where he is," she remarked.
"That depends," he answered.
She adjusted a sheet of paper into her typewriter.
"Who do you suppose 'M' is?" she asked.
"With your assistance," Peter Ruff remarked, a littlesarcastically--"with your very kind assistance--I propose to find out!"
Miss Brown sniffed, and banged at the keys of her typewriter.
"That coal-dealer's girl from Streatham!" she murmured to herself....