The dressing-case was empty, its contents upon the floor.  Mr. Fentolin held out his hand and took the pocket-book which Meekins had been carrying.  It was an ordinary morocco affair, similar to those issued by American banking houses to enclose letters of credit.  One side of it was filled with notes.  Mr. Fentolin withdrew them and glanced them through.

“Dear me!” he murmured.  “No wonder our friend engages special trains!  He travels like a prince, indeed.  Two thousand pounds, or near it, in this little compartment.  And here, I see, a letter, a sealed letter with no address.”

He held it out in front of him.  It was a long commercial envelope of ordinary type, and although the flap was secured with a blob of sealing wax, there was no particular impression upon it.

“We can match this envelope, I think,” Mr. Fentolin said softly.  “The seal we can copy.  I think that, for the sake of others, we must discover the cause for this hurried journey on the part of Mr. John P. Dunster.”

With his long, delicate forefinger Mr. Fentolin slit the envelope and withdrew the single sheet of paper which it contained.  There were a dozen lines of written matter, and what appeared to be a dozen signatures appended.  Mr. Fentolin read it, at first with ordinary interest.  Then a change came.  The look of a man drawn out of himself, drawn out of all knowledge of his surroundings or his present state, stole into his face.  Literally he became transfixed.  The delicate fingers of his, left hand gripped the sides of his little carriage.  His eyes shone as though those few written lines upon which they were riveted were indeed some message from an unknown, an unimagined world.  Yet no word ever passed his lips.  There came a time when the tension seemed a little relaxed.  With fingers which still trembled, he folded up the sheet and replaced it in the envelope.  He guarded it with both his hands and sat quite still.  Neither Gerald nor his servant moved.  Somehow, the sense of Mr. Fentolin’s suppressed excitement seemed to have become communicated to them.  It was a little tableau, broken at last by Mr. Fentolin himself.

“I should like,” he said, turning to Gerald, “to be alone.  It may interest you to know that this document which Mr. Dunster has brought across the seas, and which I hold in my hands, is the most amazing message of modern times.”

Gerald rose to his feet.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asked abruptly.  “Do you want any one in from the telegraph room?”

Mr. Fentolin shook his head slowly.

“At present,” he announced, “I am going to reflect.  Meekins, my chair to the north window—­so.  I am going to sit here,” he went on, “and I am going to look across the sea and reflect.  A very fortunate storm, after all, I think, which kept Mr. John P. Dunster from the Harwich boat last night.  Leave me, Gerald, for a time.  Stand behind my chair, Meekins, and see that no one enters.”