"You wished to see me on business?"

"Yes," said R. Jones. "Yes. . . . Miss Valentine, may I begin by
begging you to realize that I have no intention of insulting
you?"

Joan's eyebrows rose. For an instant she did her visitor the
injustice of suspecting that he had been dining too well.

"I don't understand."

"Let me explain: I have come here," R. Jones went on, getting
more gentlemanly every moment, "on a very distasteful errand, to
oblige a friend. Will you bear in mind that whatever I say is
said entirely on his behalf?"

By this time Joan had abandoned the idea that this stout person
was a life-insurance tout, and was inclining to the view that he
was collecting funds for a charity.

"I came here at the request of the Honorable Frederick
Threepwood."

"I don't quite understand."

"You never met him, Miss Valentine; but when you were in the
chorus at the Piccadilly Theatre, I believe, he wrote you some
very foolish letters. Possibly you have forgotten them?"

"I certainly have."