"Oh, ay!—but twenty shillings the pair! Think of it! ... Well, the point—there is one, you see—is this: it is Richard's desire that you honour him with your presence at Wyncham on Friday week, at three in the afternoon exactly. To which effect he sends you this." He tossed a letter on to the desk. "You are like to have the felicity of meeting me there."
Tracy ripped open the packet and spread the single sheet on the desk before him. He read it through very deliberately, turned it over, as if in search of more, re-read it, folded it, and dropped it into the wastebasket at his side. He then picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink again.
"What think you?" demanded Andrew, impatiently.
His Grace wrote tranquilly on to the end of the line.
"What think I of what?"
"Why, the letter, of course! What ails the man? 'Something of great import to impart to us,' forsooth! What means he?"
"Yes, I noticed 'twas very badly worded," commented Tracy. "I have not the vaguest notion as to his meaning."
"But what do you make of it? Lord, Tracy, don't be such a fish! Dick is summoning quite a party!"
"You appear to be in his confidence, my dear Andrew. Allow me to congratulate you. No doubt we shall know more—ah—on Friday week, at three o'clock."
"Oh, you'll go, then?"