Sure enough, it was from Hong Kong, and from that chap, Mastermann. Out there on special mission for his government, he said. I don't know what it was—never did know, in fact, for I skipped down to this paragraph, which I read aloud:
"Every puff of those rare cigars you sent me has but reminded me that my debt to you is still unpaid."
I read thus far; then I read it again. But I could make nothing of it.
"Cigars—cigars?" I exclaimed, puzzled.
Then I forgot the letter as I stared at Jenkins.
"And what's the matter with you?" I demanded.
For I had caught him with his hand over his mouth, obviously trying to suppress a chuckle. He sobered instantly, but seemed embarrassed for a reply.
"Oh, I say, you know!" I urged him.
He started to speak, then pulled up. His breath went out in a sort of sigh. And he just stood there looking at me, and looking kind of scared.
Fact! Perfectly irreproachable service for five years; and now here, dash it, showing emotion and that sort of thing, just like—well, like people, by Jove! Gad, I don't mind saying I was devilish put out! I screwed my glass rather severely and he made another go: