"All right," answered Gano, yawning. "I believe I'm hungry. I'll go and forage."
When he came back with the provisions he brought up some letters and papers. He tumbled everything down on the table. There was nothing for him but some proof from the office, and two letters from America, sent on by Monroe & Co.
"Birthday greetings from New Plymouth," he said to himself, as he recognized the familiar old-fashioned hand, the violet ink, and the brown five-cent stamp that had grown to seem foreign to him. He hadn't the curiosity to read birthday commonplaces till the impromptu meal was finished, and Driscoll had become a bore, asking him to look out and see if Mary wasn't coming, the only variation being, "Hark! isn't she on the stairs?"
It was only then that, turning the letters over, it occurred to him to doubt if the second was a cousinly salutation.
"No, by Jove! Boston postmark!"
He tore it open. A brief note from the legal firm of Bostwick & Allen, announcing the death of their client, Aaron Tallmadge, and the bare fact that his entire estate was left to his sole surviving heir and grandson, whose instructions they awaited. The letter had been to Nice and back. It was nearly two weeks old.
"By Jove!" Gano dropped the letter on the table among the coffee-cups and bits of brioche.
"What! is she here?" Driscoll sat up in bed.
"No, no; I don't know. Listen to this." He read the letter aloud.