One morning I found on my breakfast table a letter in Derrick's handwriting.

Like most men, we hardly ever corresponded--what women say in the eternal letters they send to each other I can't conceive--but it struck me that under the circumstances I ought to have sent him a line to ask how he was getting on, and my conscience pricked me as I remembered that I had hardly thought of him since we parted, being absorbed in my own matters.

The letter was not very long, but when one read between the lines it somehow told a good deal.

I have it lying by me, and this is a copy of it: "Dear Sydney,--Do like a good fellow go to North Audley Street for me, to the house which I described to you as the one where Lynwood lodged, and tell me what he would see besides the church from his window--if shops, what kind?
Also if any glimpse of Oxford Street would be visible.
Then if you'll add to your favours by getting me a second-hand copy of Laveleye's 'Socialisme Contemporain,' I should be for ever grateful.

We are settled in here all right.