He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.
He would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things.

The screen had not been set back, and a blank space was visible on the wall.

Perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room.

It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house.

He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpled lace.
He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's note.