correcting himself, “if one be needed.”The servant bowed, and went out of the room. I began to laugh, and Bolingbroke turned an inquiring glance at me.

“There is some jest?”

“It is of your making, my lord. I fancy those few honest books will not be opened yet awhile.”

He flushed a little. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“That is because you cover so closely the hand-writing of your letter that you have not as yet perceived from whom it comes.”

“That is very true,” he replied immediately; and he glanced at the cover of it. “The hand is strange to me. Perchance you recognize it;” and he frankly held it out to me.

“No,” I replied; “but I recognized the servant who brought it. Marshall Berwick has sent him more than once with messages to the rector of my college.”

“Oh,” said he, with a start of surprise, “Marshall Berwick, the Chevalier’s minister?” He opened the letter with a fine show of indifference. “I think I mentioned to you that I had already been inv

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