The furniture he had admired was in his power; this made the lawyer smile, but the smile passed into a business frown as a timid rap at the door announced the approach of one of his clerks.
He was bringing in the letters from the last post, and presenting those that had been written for the signature of the head of the firm. Mr. Robinson proceeded slowly to inspect his letters, the young man standing near him in a quietly respectful attitude.
"Mr. Moon been written to?" he inquired curtly.
"Yes, sir."
"And Mrs. Grey?"
"A letter from her, sir, on the table."
"Right!—wait a moment."
Mr. Robinson did everything in a quiet, business-like way. He proceeded with great deliberation to open his letters one by one, using a paper-cutter for the purpose, until he came to the one in question.
"Have you got Mrs. Grey's letter there? Ah!" He tore it across, and threw the pieces into the waste-paper basket at his side. "Tell Wilson I will write myself—something wrong there. What are you waiting for? Do you want anything?"