“We will make every allowance,” replied Carrados.

The post office occupied one side of a stationer’s shop.  It was not without some inward trepidation that Mr. Carlyle found himself committed to the adventure.  Carrados, on the other hand, was the personification of bland unconcern.

“You have just sent a telegram to Brookbend Cottage,” he said to the young lady behind the brasswork lattice.  “We think it may have come inaccurately and should like a repeat.”  He took out his purse.  “What is the fee?”

The request was evidently not a common one.  “Oh,” said the girl uncertainly, “wait a minute, please.”  She turned to a pile of telegram duplicates behind the desk and ran a doubtful finger along the upper sheets.  “I think this is all right.  You want it repeated?”

“Please.”  Just a tinge of questioning surprise gave point to the courteous tone.

“It will be fourpence.  If there is an error the amount will be refunded.”

Carrados put down his coin and received his change.

“Will it take long?” he inquired carelessly, as he pulled on his glove.

“You will most likely get it within a quarter of an hour,” she replied.

“Now you’ve done it,” commented Mr. Carlyle as they walked back to their car.  “How do you propose to get that telegram, Max?”

“Ask for it,” was the laconic explanation.

And, stripping the artifice of any elaboration, he simply asked for it and got it.  The car, posted at a convenient bend in the road, gave him a warning note as the telegraph-boy approached.  Then Carrados took up a convincing attitude with his hand on the gate while Mr. Carlyle lent himself to the semblance of a departing friend.  That was the inevitable impression when the boy rode up.

“Creake, Brookbend Cottage?” inquired Carrados, holding out his hand, and without a second thought the boy gave him the envelope and rode away on the assurance that there would be no reply.

“Some day, my friend,” remarked Mr. Carlyle, looking nervously toward the unseen house, “your ingenuity will get you into a tight corner.”

“Then my ingenuity must get me out again,” was the retort.  “Let us have our ‘view’ now.  The telegram can wait.”

An untidy workwoman took their order and left them standing at the door.  Presently a lady whom they both knew to be Mrs. Creake appeared.

“You wish to see over the house?” she said, in a voice that was utterly devoid of any interest.  Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned to the nearest door and threw it open.

“This is the drawing-room,” she said, standing aside.

They walked into a sparsely furnished, damp-smelling room and made a pretence of looking round, while Mrs. Creake remained silent and aloof.

“The dining-room,” she continued, crossing the narrow hall and opening another door.

Mr. Carlyle ventured a genial commonplace in the hope of inducing conversation.  The result was not encouraging.  Doubtless they would have gone through the house under the same frigid guidance had not Carrados been at fault in a way that Mr. Carlyle had never known him fail before.  In crossing the hall he stumbled over a mat and almost fell.