A very bright young man—one of the clerks—held in his hand a large envelope, bearing on one end the printed address of the firm whose private office the colonel was at that moment occupying as a council chamber. It was addressed in the colonel's well-known round hand. This was not the fact, however, which excited interest; for the colonel never used any other envelopes than those of the firm.
The postman, who had just taken it from his bag, wanted to deliver it at its destination. The proprietor wanted to throw it back into the box for remailing, believing it to be a Garden Spot circular, and so of no especial importance. The bright young man wanted to return it to the colonel.
The bright young man prevailed, rapped at the door, and laid the letter under the colonel's nose. It bore this address:—
P. A. KLUTCHEM, ESQ., Room 21, Star Building, Wall Street, Immediate. New York.
The colonel turned pale and broke the seal. Out dropped his challenge!
"Where did you get this?" he asked, aghast.
"From the carrier. It was held for postage."
Had a bombshell been exploded the effect could not have been more startling.
Yancey was the first man on his feet.
"And the scoundrel never got it! Here, Colonel, give me the letter. I'll go through this town like a fine-tooth comb but what I'll find him. He will never escape me. My name is Yancey, suh!"