Page 275 of 490

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. It was simply to say that he sent him round the

evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he

would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened The St. James's

languidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth

page caught his eye. It drew attention to the following

paragraph: