Ruxton nodded. "And in consequence I am saved much heartburning."
"Yes." Sir Andrew gathered up a sheaf of sealed envelopes and flung them into his post basket. "Twenty-five letters. Answers to cranks. Answers to those philanthropists who love to do good with other folks' money. Answers to beggars, to would-be blackmailers, to public institutions whose chief asset is a carefully compiled list of likely subscribers, and then—those whom we have decided to encourage—the inventors. Here is our friend Charles Smith." He picked up the last letter remaining to be dealt with. "What am I going to say to him?"
The old man scratched one shaggy eyebrow with the point of his penholder—one of his signs of doubt and perplexity.
"This secrecy business adds importance to the reply," he added.
Ruxton held out his hand.
"Let's read it again," he said.
His father passed the letter across, and sat watching the concentrated brows of his son, while the latter re-perused the contents.
The watching man was about to turn back to his desk when his eyes abruptly widened questioningly. Ruxton had suddenly sat bolt upright, and a quick flush of suppressed excitement spread over his strong expressive features.
"Veevee, London!" he exclaimed. "A code address which is obviously a word made out of initial letters. V. V." Then he looked across at his startled parent. "I say, Dad, there's mystery here all right—mystery everywhere to-night. V. V. Those initials fit Vita Vladimir exactly."
"Precisely. Also Vivian Vansittart," smiled his father. "Or any other high-sounding names beginning with V."