"Thank you very much, sir," he said. "I'll see you're not bothered again, sir. Don't you worry about that."
Bidding him good-night, I mounted the steps of my house, and was just getting out my latch-key when a telegraph-boy suddenly rode up on a bicycle and jumped off in the gutter outside.
He came up the steps, pulling out a wire from his bag.
"Is that for me?" I asked. "Mr. Stuart Northcote?"
"Yes, sir."
I took it from him, and, tearing open the envelope, held up the message to the light of the street lamp. It consisted of seven words:
"Get rid of your new butler immediately."
I stared at it for a moment, and then laughed.
"Thanks," I said; "there's no answer."