Flitwick," said Lauriston. He took the letters, saw that
the writing on the registered envelope was his old friend John Purdie's,
and that the other letter was from the magazine to which he had sold his
stories, and turned to Ayscough. "Come up to my room," he continued.
"We'll talk up there."
Ayscough followed him up to his room--once inside, and the door shut,
Lauriston tore open the letter from the magazine, and extracted a printed
form and a cheque for twenty guineas. He took one look at them and thrust
them into the detective's hands.
"There!" he said, with a sigh of mingled relief and triumph. "There's a
proof of the truth of one statement I made to you! That's the expected
cheque I told you of. Excuse me while I look at the other letter."
Out of the registered letter came a bank-note--for twenty pounds--and a
hastily scribbled note which Lauriston eagerly read. "Dear old Andie," it
ran, "I've only just got your letter, for I've been from home for a
fortnight, and had no letters sent on to me. Of course you'll make me your
banker until your book's finished--and afterwards, too, if need be.
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