“Lady’s hand—evidently French,” continued Harry, and then he read from the envelope—
“To Mr—Mr L.R., 70 Regent Street.”
“Why, it’s an answer to the advertisement,” cried Lionel, bursting into a loud laugh. “Read it out, old boy.”
Harry seemed as if he were attracted by the delicacy of the handwriting; for, instead of tearing open the missive, he took out a penknife and cut the paper, heedless of Lionel Redgrave’s sneering laugh.
“What a model of care you are, Harry,” he exclaimed; “fold your clothes up every night when you go to bed, I’ll swear.”
Harry smiled, and then read aloud:—
“Honoured Sir,—Seeing your advertisement in to-day’s Times, I believe I know a gentleman who was followed by a dog answering the description of your bull-tarrier; so I will do myself the honour of waiting upon you this evening, at eight o’clock.—Your obedient servant,
“Fancy.”
“Your obedient servant,” repeated Lionel.
“‘To command’ scratched out,” said Harry.
“That’s a rum sort of letter to come in a lady’s hand, and in French style—isn’t it? Is it spelt right?”