early this morning, no
post mark--nothing--just slipped through the box."

Hilbert Torrington took from the envelope a single flower pressed
almost flat. It was a dog rose.

"Odd," he muttered, "distinctly odd." He weighed the flower in his
hand and sniffed the envelope critically. It had no scent. "You have
no one, Almont--I mean, there isn't anyone who'd be likely to--Well,
you're a young man."

"Oh, Lord! no, nothing of that kind."

And Almont's inflection suggested that the very idea of such a thing
caused him pain.

Hilbert Torrington pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling.

"What does a dog rose suggest to you, Cassis?"

"A silly interruption," replied that gentleman sourly.

"Yes, yes, but was there not--dear me, it's so long ago I've almost
forgotten--was there not some floral Lingua Franca--Ah! the language of
flowers."

Cassis snorted, but Cranbourne was at the book shelves in an instant.

"It's printed at the back of dictionaries," he said. "Here's one!" He
took out a volume and turned over the pages as he spoke. "This is it.
Rose--Love. Yellow rose--jealousy. White rose--I am worthy of you.
Dog rose--Hope."

"Hope," repeated Mr. Torrington.

Lord Almont struck the table and sprang to his feet.

"By God!" he cried. "Barraclough's going to win through."

In the midst of a babel of tongues the telephone rang imperatively.
Mr. Torrington picked up the receiver.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Who? You are speaking for Mr. Van Diest."

The three other men came instantly to attention and exchanged glances.
There was a pause. Then Mr. Torrington said:

"Indeed! Oh, very well--delightful," and he replaced the receiver.

"What's happened?" Almont demanded.

"I don't entirely know. But it appears that Van Diest and his amiable
colleague Hipps, are shortly paying us a visit--here."

There was a moment of consternation.

"But Good Lord!" exclaimed Cranbourne. "That may mean anything."

Nugent Cassis threw up his hands desperately. Every vestige of his
quiet business habit had vanished and instead he was a nerve-racked
exasperated man who paced up and down jerking out half sentences,
reproaches and forecasts of failure.

"It's that fellow Frencham Altar given us away. Damn stupid
introducing the type--man on a bench--Means ruin to the lot of us.
Coming here are they? Refuse to see them. I knew there'd be a break
down somewhere--felt it in my joints--If everything had gone accord