The hotel grew quiet. Mr. Marcy had not read the evening mail through, so busy had he been kept during the regatta. He sat in the office with his night-clerk, concluding the letters hastily.
“Holloa!” he exclaimed, breaking a seal, “Nova Scotia post-mark? Saxton’s hand? I guess I’d better look at it before I go to bed.” He glanced at the first lines. His face grew attentive. He read on and turned the page. It wasn’t a long letter, but it was plainly about an important matter.
He laid it down. Then, folding his arms, he stared in consideration at the uninteresting picture of a North German Lloyds steamship over his desk. Then he said, half aloud, “Certainly he’ll do! He’s just the person.” He rose quickly. “I’ll go up and read it to them at once. No! On second thoughts, they would neither of them sleep a wink if I did. To-morrow will do.”
Mr. Marcy put the letter in the desk, turned out the gas, bade Mr. Keller good-night, and walked away to his room.
In that letter were involved the fortunes of the two lads, the big and the little one, who were asleep in Number 45, Gerald with one hand under his yellow head and the other just touching Philip’s arm; as if he would have him mindful, even in dreams, that their existences now had ceased to be divorced, and that a new responsibility had come to Touchtone in that fact.
[CHAPTER IV.]
UNDER SAILING ORDERS.
They had just finished dressing next morning. Philip was asking himself whether, after all the fun of the last few days, the idea of adding up columns of figures in the office was a pleasant one.
“Come in,” was Gerald’s reply to a knock.