“Those, I don’t want you to open on any account. Keep them for me till I come back. If you don’t hear from me in six months, better say eight months, burn them. And post this.” He took another envelope from his pocket, handed it to Peter, who saw, in his cousin’s sprawly handwriting, “Miss B. Cochrane. C/o The Guaranty Trust Company of New York. To be forwarded.”
There was the usual awkward silence which betokens sentiment among English people. Then Peter got up, walked over to the safe, pulled out his private cash-box, and locked up the letters.
“That’ll be all right,” he said. “But why eight months? You don’t expect the war to last as long as that, do you?”
Came footsteps outside, a hand at the door-catch.
“Well, good-bye, Mr. Jameson. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you for the information.”
Mr. “Raymond Sellers” shook hands effusively; half bowed to Simpson, and departed.
“Who was that chap?” asked Peter’s partner.
“That was only . . .” Peter stopped himself in time, “an American newspaper fellow—cadging advertisements for one of their trade-journals.”
“Tobacco Leaf or the other one?”
“The other one,” said Peter nonchalantly.