I had always thought Swain a handsome, thoroughbred-looking fellow; and I saw that, in the past few months, he had grown more thoroughbred-looking than ever.  His face was thinner than when he had first gone to work for us, there was a new line between his eyebrows, and the set of his lips told of battles fought and won.  A year ago, it had seemed natural to call him Freddie, but no one would think of doing so now.  His father’s creditors had not attempted to take from him his wardrobe—­a costly and extensive one—­so that he was dressed as carefully, if not quite as fashionably, as ever, in a way that suggested a young millionaire, rather than a fifteen-dollar-a-week clerk.  At this moment, his face was clouded, and he drummed the arm of his chair with nervous fingers.  Then he shifted uneasily under my gaze, which was, perhaps, more earnest than I realised.

“You said you had a message for me, sir,” he reminded me.

“Yes,” I said.  “Have you ever been out this way before?”

“Yes, I have been out this way a number of times.”

“You know this place, then?”

“I have heard it mentioned, but I have never been here before.”

“Do you know whose place that is next door to us?”

“Yes,” and his voice sank to a lower key.  “It belongs to Worthington Vaughan.”

“And you know him?”

“At one time, I knew him quite well, sir,” and his voice was still lower.

“No doubt,” I went on, more and more interested, “you also knew his very fascinating daughter.”

A wave of colour crimsoned his face.

“Why are you asking me these questions, Mr. Lester?” he demanded.

“Because,” I said, “the message I have is from that young lady, and is for a man named Frederic Swain.”

He was on his feet, staring at me, and all the blood was gone from his cheeks.

“A message!” he cried.  “From her!  From Marjorie!  What is it, Mr. Lester?  For God’s sake....”

“Here it is,” I said, and handed him the letter.

He seized it, took one look at the address, then turned away to the window and ripped the envelope open.  He unfolded the sheet of paper it contained, and as his eyes ran along it, his face grew whiter still.  At last he raised his eyes and stared at me with the look of a man who felt the world tottering about him.

CHAPTER V

A CALL FOR HELP

“For heaven’s sake, Swain,” I said, “sit down and pull yourself together.”

But he did not seem to hear me.  Instead he read the letter through again, then he turned toward me.

“How did you get this, Mr. Lester?” he asked.

“I found it lying under the trees.  It had been thrown over the wall.”

“But how did you know it was thrown over by Miss Vaughan?”

“That was an easy guess,” I said, sparring feebly.  “Who else would attempt to conduct a surreptitious correspondence with a handsome young man?”