"Beg pardon, sir; but think it's that London gentleman—entertained you at the Carlton when you were over the other side."
Mastermann! By Jove, so it was—I began to remember him now, because I remembered his dinner, several of them, in fact, during the three years I had lived over there, acquiring the English accent—manner, you know—and all that sort of thing!
Mastermann—oh, yes, I had him, now! Jolly rum old boy, but entertaining and clever—long hair, pink wart on jaw! And, by Jove, I had promised him—promised him—what the deuce was it I had promised him? Let me see: he was something or other in the foreign office; yes, I had that—and tremendously interested in mummies and psychical investigation and rum sort of things like that, and—
"By Jove!" I ejaculated, as it came to me. "And for that reason he wanted them to send him out to China."
"Beg pardon, sir," put in Jenkins, "but think you had a letter with a Chinese postmark last week."
He looked around at my little writing-desk and coughed slightly behind his hand.
"Was just a-wondering, sir, if it might not be among those you haven't opened—there are several piles. If I might look, sir—"
I nodded. Fact is, I allow Jenkins much privilege, owing to long service. Then, you know—oh, dash it, he's so original—so refreshing and that sort of thing—so surprising. Just as in this case, he thinks of so many devilishly ingenious, out-of-the-way sort of things!
It was Jenkins' idea that I find out what was in the box by just opening the dashed thing while he looked for the letter.
Clever that, eh? Well, rather!