THE LETTER WITH THE PURPLE SEAL
I invited Terry to breakfast with me at nine precisely next day, and each of us was solemnly pledged not to look at a newspaper until we could open them together.
We went to the theatre the night before (the first time Terry could endure the thought since his illness), and supped at the Savoy afterward, simply to mitigate the suffering of suspense. Nevertheless, I was up at seven-thirty A. M., and at eight-forty-eight was in the breakfast room gazing at six newspapers neatly folded on the flower-decked table.
At eight-fifty-one, my guest arrived, and by common consent we seized the papers. He opened three. I opened three. Yes, there it was! How perfect, how thrilling! How even better it appeared in print than we had expected! Anxiously we read the other advertisements of country houses to let or sell, and agreed that there was nothing whose attractions came within miles of our, in all senses of the word, priceless offer.
How we got through the next two and a half hours I don't know!
I say two and a half advisedly: because, as Jones had six visits to pay, we thought we might start him off at eleven-thirty. This we did; but his calmness had damped us. He wasn't excited. Was it probable that any one else—except ourselves—could be?
Cold reaction set in. We prepared each other for the news that there were no telegrams or answers of any sort. Terry said it was no use concealing that this would be a bitter blow. I had not the energy to correct his rhetoric, or whatever it was, by explaining that a blow can't be bitter.
Twelve-thirty struck, and produced no Jones; twelve-forty-five; one; Jones still missing.
"I ought to have told him to come back at once after the sixth place, even if there wasn't a thing," said Terry. "Like a fool, I didn't: he may have thought he'd do some other errands on the way home, if he'd nothing to report. Donkey! Ass! Pig."
"Captain Burns' man, your highness," announced my maid. "He wants to know——"