The village postman, a veteran of sixty years, had appeared round the corner of the lane that abutted on the bridge, his boots white with the dust gathered since he had started his morning tramp of ten miles a couple of hours before.
"Marnen, young genelmen," said the postman. "Fine marnen, to be sure. Ay, I've got one little small thing in the way of a registered letter."
"Then I've no further interest in you, my friend," said Eves. "Registered letters are not in my scheme of life."
"Good now; that saves me the trouble of asking ye which is Mr. Robert Templeton. No, no," he added, as Templeton held out his hand. "Ye'll sign the bit o' paper first. Just there, with my pencil, an 'ee please; 'twon't rub out, and I've got to think of my fame in the land; forty year in the service and no complaints, I don't care who the man is."
Templeton signed the green-tinted receipt slip; the postman handed over the letter, bade them good morning, and shambled away.
"From my aunt," remarked Templeton as he cut open the envelope.
"My prophetic soul!" exclaimed Eves. "How much, Bob?"
Templeton flourished a ten-pound note, but made no reply until he had read through the accompanying letter, which he then handed to Eves with the remark, "She's a good old sort."
"Wasn't it Solomon said, 'Go to the aunts'?" said Eves. A broad smile spread over his face as he read the letter, which ran as follows:
"MY DEAR NEPHEW,