From this room came the sounds of a grand piano and of the sweet voice of a girl singing a simple and pathetic ballad.
At the moment the song ceased a brisk step was heard coming up the path through the garden, and a good-looking young fellow of tall figure and manly air made his way to where the other still sat with his eyes fixed on vacancy, as one who neither sees nor hears aught of what is going on about him.
“Ha, Leonard!” the new-comer exclaimed, with a light laugh, “caught you dreaming again, eh? In another of your reveries?”
The other roused himself with a start, and looked to see who was his visitor.
“Good-morning, Jack,” he then answered with a slight flush. “Well, yes—I suppose I must have been dreaming a little, for I did not hear you coming.”
“Bet I guess what you were dreaming about,” said the one addressed as Jack. “Roraima, as usual, eh?”
Leonard looked a little conscious.
“Why, yes,” he admitted, smiling. “But,” he continued seriously, “I have just been reading something that set me thinking. It is about Roraima, and it is old; that is to say, it is in an old number of a paper bound up in this book that a friend has lent me. I should like to read it to you. Shall I?”
“All right; if I may smoke the while. I suppose I may?” And the speaker, anticipating consent, pulled out a pipe, filled and lighted it, and then, having seated himself on a chair, crossed one leg over the other, and added, “Now, then, I am ready. Fire away, old man.”
And Leonard Elwood read the following extract from the book he had been studying:—