"Yes," resumed the captain. "Usual thing, the husband, this boy's father, was awfully cut up; left the world and buried himself and sent the boy away, treated him very well, though, all the same; sent him to Eton, and to Cambridge, under the care of a tutor, and that sort of thing, but couldn't bear to see him. He's up now for the holidays—the boy, I mean!"
"I understand," said Jasper, in a low voice. "Quite a story, isn't it? And"—he paused to throw the piece of paper on the fire—"do you think the boy has communicated with the father ever since?"
"Heaven knows—not unlikely. He said something about telegraphing."
"Oh, yes; just so," said Jasper, carelessly. "Well, it will be inconvenient, but I suppose I must do what you want. The sooner we get this over the better," and he sat down and drew out his check book.
"Thanks, thanks!" muttered the captain. "I didn't think a good fellow like you would stand back; I didn't, indeed!"
"I ought not to do it," murmured Jasper, with a shake of the head, as he rang the bell.
"Take this letter to Murphy, and wait, Scrivell," he said.
Scrivell disappeared noiselessly.
"By the way," said Jasper, "have you mentioned this to any one excepting me?"