“Of course, Colonel.” The mystery was now impenetrable.
“You have no objection to my takin’ this letter, Fitz?”
“Not the slightest.”
The Colonel walked to the window, looked out for a moment into the street, walked back to Fitz’s desk, and with a tinge of resignation in his voice as if he had at last nerved himself for the worst, laid his hand on Fitz’s shoulder:
“I should never have a moment’s peace, Fitz, if I did not exhaust every means in my power to ward off this catastrophe from you. Kindly give me a pen.”
I moved closer. Was the Colonel going to sign his check for a million, or was there some unknown friend who, at a stroke of his pen, would come to Fitz’s rescue?
The Colonel smoothed out the letter containing the proposition of the Engraving Company, tried the pen on his thumbnail, dipped it carefully in the inkstand, poised it for an instant, and in a firm round hand wrote across its type-written face the words:
“Accepted.
George Fairfax Carter,
of Cartersville.”
Then he folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his inside pocket.