"Hello, old chap; you are in a hurry!" cried Nevill. "What's up now? Seen my uncle?"
Jack was flushed and breathless.
"No; I couldn't manage it," he panted. "I left a note at Morley's for him. I had to make a call—party wasn't at home."
"Where are you bound for? Morley's?"
"No; it's too late. Shall we have some refreshment?"
"Sorry, but I can't," replied Nevill. "I'm going to a reception. Will you come to my rooms at eleven?"
"Yes, if I'm not too far away. But don't count on me. Good-night, in case I don't see you again."
"Good-night," echoed Nevill.
As he looked after Jack, the latter pulled out his handkerchief, and a white object fluttered from it to the pavement. He walked on, unconscious of its loss. Nevill hurried to the spot, and picked up a letter.
"A woman's!" he muttered, as he thrust it quickly into his pocket. "And the writing seems familiar. I'll examine this when I get a chance. Everything is fair in the game I am playing."