"See here," he said, turning to me, "I want your address, and for the
present you will stay here."

I am considered good-tempered. Usually, too, I can control my feelings.
There is a limit, however, to the amount of incivility I can stand, and
this fellow was deliberately insulting me.

"How dare you speak like that to me!" I burst out. "What has this affair
to do with me? Do you know who I am?"

"Aren't you Mr. Michael Berrington?" he inquired more guardedly,
apparently taken aback at my outburst of indignation.

"I am."

"Then read that," he said, producing a telegram and holding it out
before me.

It was addressed to:

"Miss Dulcie Challoner, Holt Manor, Holt Stacey," and ran:

"The police have recovered property which they believe to have been
stolen from Holt Manor. Please come at once to 430 Grafton Street, Bond
Street, to identify it. Shall expect you by train due Paddington 12:17.
Please don't fail to come as matter very urgent.

"MICHAEL BERRINGTON."

It had been handed in at the office in Regent Street at 9:30 that