SIGNS OF TROUBLE At ten o'clock the next morning, Hunterleys crossed the sunlit gardens towards the English bank, to receive what was, perhaps, the greatest shock of his life.

A few minutes later he stood before the mahogany counter, his eyes fixed upon the half sheet of notepaper which the manager had laid before him.

The words were few enough and simple enough, yet they constituted for him a message written in the very ink of tragedy.

The notepaper was the notepaper of the Hotel de Paris, the date the night before, the words few and unmistakable: To the Manager of the English Bank.

Please hand my letters to bearer.
HENRY HUNTERLEYS.
He read it over, letter by letter, word by word.