Dear Procter:
You've known for some time that Job Doane is running the hardware shop in my interest. I bought the place for a future purpose, never mind that purpose, it isn't of interest to you or anyone in Anchorville. I am confined to my room with an attack of rheumatism, so I can't see you to talk over a scheme which I have in mind. I will say that I have concluded all arrangements to rebuild homes for the men and their families who were burned out some time ago, and I want you to act as my agent. No sentiment in building these up-to-date houses, let me assure you. Only perhaps I've given some thought to Suzanna's little wrist chain. Come to me within a day or two and we'll talk over salary, and other things of interest to you.
Yours,
John Massey.
Suzanna plunged into the ensuing quiet. "Is there any answer, daddy?" she asked.
Mr. Procter looked at his small daughter through a mist, then at Mr. Bartlett still standing regarding him somewhat curiously. "No, no answer," he said at last, "but I want to see your mother—right away."