"Yes, sir. I hope—there ain't no serious trouble, sir?"
Rupert forced a laugh. "Trouble? Why—by the way, are there any letters for me?"
Mrs. Jones struggled for her pocket, and after a few moments produced a crumpled envelope which she straightened out and handed to Rupert.
"Miss Strode left that for you the day she went away, sir. And she put them flowers in that vase on the bureau. I said as how they wouldn't live until you came back. But, there, it was her fancy to have them while you were away, and I was to leave them there."
Rupert nodded. He turned the envelope over, broke the seal, then changed his mind, and put it into his pocket.
"No other letters?" he asked sharply.
The landlady looked over the top of his head, and picking up her apron commenced to twist the corners nervously.
"A gentleman called to see you this afternoon, sir, and not knowing you was returning I told him you had gone away and weren't expected. He said you were probably coming up to London—I didn't take no notice of that. He wouldn't give his name, sir, but he seemed anxious to see you."
Rupert guessed it was Sir Reginald Crichton. Turning his back on Mrs. Jones he took out his key intending to open the bureau. To his surprise he found it was unlocked. The landlady continued to twist her apron, watching him surreptitiously.
"There are no other letters for me?" he repeated.