The room was empty.

On the table lay two letters, one addressed to Guy Oscard, the other to Jack Meredith.

Meredith felt suddenly how weak he was, and sat wearily down on the sofa.
"Give me that letter," he said.
Joseph looked at him keenly.

There was something forlorn and cold about the room--about the whole house--with the silent, smiling, black servants and the shaded windows.
Joseph handed the letter as desired, and then, with quick practised hands, he poured a small quantity of brandy into the cup of his flask.
"Drink this first, sir," he said.
Jack Meredith fumbled rather feebly at the letter.

It was distinctly an effort to him to tear the paper.
"MY DEAR MEREDITH" (he read),--"Just a line to tell you that the Bungalow and its contents are at your service.