“Very good, sir.” Jolly used the paper-knife from the tray, and took out the letter as Rollison continued to murmur about the others. There were begging letters, appeals from charities, circulars, a selection of letters from relatives—in fact a surprising number. Rollison reached a bill which he thought was the last of the small letters, finished his tea, and looked up.

“Well. Jolly?”

“It is from Mrs. Link, sir, who hopes that you will go to supper to-night.” Jolly showed that he disapproved of the suggestion.

“Curious,” said Rollison. “She usually only invites me on great occasions. It isn’t my birthday, is it?”

“No, sir, that is in the Spring.”

“It looks as if the family is getting its happy returns in early,” said Rollison, “I haven’t known such a number of tender inquiries for a long time.”

He was holding out his cup for replenishment, and relinquished his hold too soon, so that only Jolly’s swift movement averted a minor disaster. “Jolly!”

Yes, sir,” said Jolly.

“Look at that!”

He was staring at the large envelope, and Jolly looked down, seeing the address for the first time. There was nothing really remarkable about it as far as Rollison was concerned, except that it had come through the post and been safely delivered.

“How very remarkable, sir,” said Jolly.

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Rollison, and peered at the postmark. “London, W.C.1, 6.15 p.m. yesterday. Jolly, we are famous!”

“It is really most gratifying,” murmured Jolly.

The typewritten address was:

The Toff,

London, W.l.

Many letters had been addressed to “The Toff, Gresham Terrace”, but never one as briefly as this. Rollison considered it curiously as Jolly handed him the paper-knife.