It was a _Standard_ of February 4--two days ago--and Arthur whistled again and turned pale as he saw a stamp and a postmark on the front page, and read a fragment of the address--"...ford, Esquire, Grandcourt." "That settles it clean!" he muttered to himself.

"I say! who'd have thought it!" Then he sat down and went over the incidents of the last twenty-four hours.
Last night--it is sad to have to record it--Arthur had been out in the big square at half-past nine, when he should have been in bed.

He had been over to find a ball which he had lost during the morning while playing catch with Dig out of the window.

On his way back--he remembered it now--he had had rather a perilous time.

First of all he had nearly run into the arms of Branscombe, the captain of Bickers's house, who was inconveniently prowling about at the time, probably in search of some truant of his own house.