WILLETTS WRITES A LETTER
At nine o'clock one night, when the stray light of day still lingered in the skies, as though loath to afford the jaded Londoner respite from toil, a tall man came into the office in Little Painter Street. The building had been closed for the night, but he opened the front door with a key, stepped into the passage, and closed the door behind him. He listened for a while to assure himself that the offices were untenanted. He knew that at that hour the caretaker would probably have gone.
After a minute's hesitation he walked quickly upstairs till he came to the door marked Willetts. This he opened and entered.
He threw up the desk, took a sheet of paper from a drawer at the side and began writing, first switching on the light which overhung the desk. He wrote stea
