He had hoped to find an envelope post-marked Boulogne-sur-Mer and addressed to him in a characteristic woman’s hand. He had received no reply to his last letter, but there was the chance that one might come by the second post.
London is a terrible place for the anxious heart expecting news by post. There are so many posts; every hour you hear the double knock at some one else’s door, every hour you see the man in blue passing, the man who could bring you so much if the fates only willed.
The second post came and brought with it a circular.
Have you ever noticed in life the part played by the unexpected? You are looking forward to some pleasure, some journey, some meeting, you, perhaps, are full of doubt as to whether your finances will meet the occasion, whether the carriage will come at the proper time, whether the woman you are to meet will keep the appointment.
All your fears are groundless, the money arrives, the carriage is at the door, the lady is waiting for you, and you are just getting into the carriage with a bunch of violets in your hand and a fat cheque in your pocket, when a messenger arrives to say that your aunt is dying.
You had never thought of that. On the other hand the cheque has not arrived, the carriage has not come, you are in despair, and Providence appears in the form of Jones, a debtor whom you had forgotten for years, now a millionaire back from South Africa.
Hellier was leaving his rooms with his overcoat tightly buttoned up, a muffler round his neck and a feeling of desolation at his heart, when, on the stairs he knocked against a telegraph boy, took a telegram from him, opened it and read by the light of the gas jet on the lower landing:
“Boulogne-sur-Mer.
“Dear Friend: We arrive London to-day. Meet us Langham Hotel six o’clock; important.
Cécile Lefarge.”