Meanwhile, Mavis had been summoned downstairs to a conference, in which the broker’s man (his name was Gunner), Mrs Trivett, and a man named Hutton, whom Mr Trivett had fetched, took part.

Mavis was informed that Mr Hutton would lend her the money needed to get rid of Mr Gunner’s embarrassing presence, for which she was to pay two pounds interest, if repaid in a month, and eight pounds interest a year during which the capital sum was being repaid by monthly instalments.

“I will telegraph to Germany,” said Mavis.  “You shall have the money next week at latest.”

Mr Hutton wanted guarantees; failing these, was Mavis in any kind of employment?

Mavis told him how she was employed by Mr Devitt.

The man opened his eyes.  Had the lady proof of this statement?

Mavis thrust her hand into her pocket, believing she might find the letter which Montague Devitt had written to Pimlico.  She brought out, instead, the letter the foreman had put into her hand when she was leaving in reply to Mrs Trivett’s summons.  The envelope of this was addressed in Mr Devitt’s hand.

“Here’s a letter from him here,” declared Mavis, as she tore it open to glance at its contents before passing it on to Hutton.

But the glance hardened into a look of deadly seriousness as her eyes fell on what was written.  She re-read the letter two or three times before she grasped its import.

“Dear Miss Keeves,” it ran, “it is with the very deepest regret that I write to say that certain facts have come to my knowledge with regard to the way in which you spent your holiday last year at Polperro.  I, also, gather that your sudden departure from Melkbridge was in connection with this visit.  As a strict moral rectitude is a sine qua non amongst those I employ, I must ask you to be good enough to resign your appointment.  I enclose cheque for present and next week’s salary.—­Truly yours,

“Montague S.T.  Devitt.”

The faces about her faded from her view; the room seemed as if it were going round.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” asked Mrs Trivett anxiously.

“I can’t give the guarantee,” gasped Mavis.

Mr Hutton rose and buttoned his coat.

“What about Germany?” put in Mrs Trivett.

“I’d forgotten that,” said Mavis.  “I’ll write a telegram at once.”

Mr Hutton unbuttoned his coat.

“Here’s ink and paper, ma’am.”

Mavis took up the pen, at which Mr Hutton sat down.  But she could not remember the address.  With swimming head, she dived her hand into the pockets of her frock, but could not find Windebank’s letter.

“I must have left it at the office,” she murmured.

“What is it you want?” asked Mrs Trivett.

“His letter for the address.”

Mr Hutton got up.

“What time is it?” asked Mavis.

“Just six o’clock.”