“I thought I paid you to clear out,” the Colonel observed sharply, eyeing with no great favour the spruce, confident young man he had last seen—or so he imagined—with a bandaged head, taking his passage to Durban.
“You did, sir.”
Hayhurst controlled his countenance with difficulty. In dealing with the Colonel he made it a practice to allow him to let off steam first. It gave a man a chance of second place, he used to say.
“Then, why in hell are you back here? ... I’ve no further use for you.”
“I’m not asking you to use me,” Hayhurst answered coolly. “I came by Lawless’ orders, to give into your own hands the packet of letters which I’ve just received from the Bank.”
He put his hand inside his coat as he spoke, and withdrew a sealed packet from an inner pocket, which, in a matter-of-fact manner, he tendered the Colonel. The Colonel nearly collapsed at sight of it. The cigar dropped from his lips, his mouth fell helplessly open.
“The—letters!” he gasped.
He stretched forth an eager hand that shook with his excitement, and almost tore the packet from Hayhurst’s grasp.
“Sit down, my boy,” he said... “Sit down.” He turned the packet lovingly. “Good God! the letters—at last!”
Breaking the seal with fingers that in their feverish eagerness could scarce perform their office, he glanced through the contents, counted the letters, and finally, going to a drawer and unlocking it, he took out a notebook to which he referred continually while he went through the packet again.