Then the Mechanism came into the room and began to act. James was the name of this individual. Dumb and serious and active as an insect, this man always filled Jones’ mind with wonderment; he seemed less a man than a machine. But at least he was a perfect machine.
Fully dressed now, he was preparing to go down when a knock came to the door and Mr. Church came in with a big envelope on a salver.
“This is what you requested me to fetch from Jermyn Street, my Lord.”
“Oh, you’ve been to Jermyn Street?”
“Yes, my Lord, directly I had served your tea at quarter to eight, I took a taxi.”
“Good!” said Jones.
He took the envelope, and, Church and the Mechanism having withdrawn, he sat down by the window to have a look at the contents.
The envelope contained letters.
Letters from a man to a woman. Letters from the Earl of Rochester to Sapphira Plinlimon. The most odiously and awfully stupid collection of love letters ever written by a fool to be read by a wigged counsel in a divorce court.
They covered three months, and had been written two years ago.