For he had at once recognised the handwriting of David Helmsley.
But he suppressed every outward sign of surprise, save such as might appear in a glance of unconcealed wonder at Mary herself.

Then he said briefly-- "Come in!" She obeyed, and was at once shut in a stuffy cupboard-like room which had no other furniture than an office desk and high stool.
"Name, please!" said the clerk.
She looked startled--then smiled.
"My name?
Mary Deane." "Miss or Mrs. ?" "'Miss,' if you please, sir," she answered, the colour flushing her cheeks with confusion at the sharpness of his manner.
The clerk gave her another up-and-down look, and opening a door behind his office desk vanished like a conjuror tricking himself through a hole.
She waited patiently for a couple of minutes--and then the clerk came back, with traces of excitement in his manner.
"Yes--Mr.Bulteel will see you.

This way!" She followed him with her usual quiet step and composed demeanour, and bent her head with a pretty air of respect as she found herself in the presence of an elderly man with iron-grey whiskers and a severely preoccupied air of business hardening his otherwise rather benevolent features.

He adjusted his spectacles and looked keenly at her as she entered.

She spoke at once.
"You are Mr.Bulteel ?" "Yes." "Then this is for you," she said, approaching him, and handing him the packet she had brought.