"Well, it may be as you think. It looks like enough, any way."
The small man addressed himself to his breakfast. Vinal sat playing with his spoon, his brain filled with busy and feverish thoughts.
In a few minutes, a messenger from an American banking house came in, looking about the room as if in search of some person. Observing Vinal, whom he had seen before, he asked if he knew where Mr. Morton was.
"Letters there for me?" demanded Vinal, taking several which the messenger held in his hand, and glancing over the directions.
"No, sir, they are all Mr. Morton's."
At that instant Vinal discovered the well-remembered handwriting of Edith Leslie. His pale face grew a shade paler.
"O, Mr. Morton's! I don't know where you will find him," and he gave back the letters to the messenger, who presently left the room.
Vinal sat for a few minutes more, brooding in silence; then slowly rose, and walked away. In going towards the room of the hotel which he occupied, he passed along a corridor, opposite the end of which opened a parlor occupied by Morton. The door was open, and Vinal, as he advanced, could plainly see his rival within. Morton had been on the point of going out. His hat and gloves lay on the table at his side; near them were three or four sealed letters; another—Vinal well knew from whom—was open in his hands; and as he stood bending over it, there was a sunlight in the eye of the successful lover which shot deadly envy into the breast of Vinal. Hate and jealousy gnawed and rankled at his heart.