been often enough now not to get lost. Do you think
you can manage it?"

"Yes, sir, if you think you can manage without me here."

There was the faintest touch of amazement in the man's even voice; he
knew how helpless Micky was, or pretended to be--knew how he hated
being left to do for himself.

But Micky only laughed.

"Oh, I can manage all right. I shall probably go away somewhere myself
for a few days. Besides, you won't be gone long----" He paused.

"No, sir," said Driver.

Micky was leaning against the mantelshelf; his eyes were all crinkled
up into a laugh as if he had heard some excellent joke which he was
about to repeat.

"No, you won't be gone long," he said again. "A couple of days, I
should think. You can put up at the hotel we stayed at last time;
they'll look after you, and the manager speaks English."

"Yes, sir----" Driver hesitated. "And--what were you wanting me to do
when I get there, sir?" he asked, after a moment.

Micky clung to his joke for an instant longer, then suddenly he let it
go.

"I want you to post a letter for me," he said.

Driver was too well trained to show amazement at Micky's instructions,
but just for a fractional second he forgot to answer with his usual
"Yes, sir," and stood immovable. Then he recovered himself, and said
it twice with hurried apology.

"And am I to go at once, sir?"

"To-morrow morning will do," Micky said. "You can go by the first boat
train." He looked at the man anxiously. He had a sort of uncomfortable
feeling that Driver must be thinking he was not quite right in the
head. After a moment he dismissed him.

Then Micky went over to his desk and rummaged amongst the many papers
and letters there till he found a sheet of paper embossed with the
name of an hotel in Paris. It had not been used, and Micky heaved a
sigh of relief.

He went to bed late that night. He forgot all about his promise to go
round to the Delands. He spent the time writing letters and tearing
them up again till the wastepaper basket was full; then he carried it
over to the fireplace and burnt every scrap of paper it contained.

There were two finished letters lying on his desk. One was sealed and
addressed, but not stamped, and the other was written on a sheet of
Driver's plain notepaper, which Micky folded and unfolded with a sort
of nervous dissatisfaction.

Its contents were not very long, but they had taken a good deal of
composing.

"DEAR MISS SHEPSTONE,--I