II
he hot September day was ten hours old. The office of the St. Christopher Club was still deserted but for a clerk who looked warm and sleepy. The postman had just left a heap of letters on his desk, and he was sorting them for their various pigeonholes. A young man entered, and the clerk began to turn over the letters more rapidly. The newcomer, tall, thin, with sharp features and shrewd American face, had an extremely nervous manner. As he passed through the vestibule a clerk at a table put a mark opposite the name “Mr. Clarence Trent,” to indicate that he was in the Club.
“Any letters?” he demanded of the office clerk.
The man handed him two, and he darted into the morning-room and tore one open, letting the other fall to the floor. He read as follows:—
“Mon ami!—I have but this moment received your letter, which seems to have been delayed. [“Of course! Why did I not think of that?”] I say nothing here of the happiness which its contents have given me. Come at once.
“Jessica Pendleton.