Twenty minutes later he laid down his pen, and taking the pile of manuscript in his lap read it over carefully. The last paragraph he reread several times. Then he placed the whole thing in an envelope and addressed it—to Exeter, New Hampshire. The little clock on the mantel pointed to half-past nine as he took off his smoking jacket and called for his coat and hat. He was tired—very tired—but something made him restless.
"I'm going to the club for a while," he said to his valet. "I'll be back in half an hour. Call a hansom."
He waited with his back to the fire, still smoking.
"Second Assistant Secretary to the Navy!" he muttered. "Not bad for thirty-four! . . . But what does it amount to? . . . What does anything amount to? . . . Who really cares? . . . It's like making the 'varsity or your senior society. . . . You always think there's some one—or that there may be some one . . ."
"Cab's here, sir," said his man.
Ralston gathered up the mail and started down the stairs. At the curb stood a hansom, the driver cloaked in a heavy waterproof. A fine rain had begun to fall, making the light from a nearby street lamp seem dim and uncertain. As Ralston stepped toward the lamp-post to mail his letters he observed a diminutive messenger boy vainly trying to decipher the address upon a telegram, which he was holding to the light. Ralston pushed the letters into the box and closed it with a slam.
"Does Mr. Ralston live here?" asked the boy.
"Right here!" answered Ralston, holding out his hand.
"Please sign."
He scrawled an apology for a signature upon the damp page of the book and tore the end off the envelope. Then, like the boy, he held the yellow paper to the light. It bore but nine words: