More than once he tore a page up and began again, but finally all was finished.
He leaned back and read the whole epistle right through again. Then he folded its many sheets in their right order and put them into the envelope.
"I think the occasion calls for sealing-wax," he said.
He found an old stump in the writing-case, and sealed up the envelope, impressing it with his father's seal. Presently the deed was done. The Epistle of Theophilus lay on the table before its author, signed, sealed, addressed, and stamped. Philip looked at the clock, and whistled. It was a quarter past twelve.
He drew aside the curtains and inspected the night. The plate-glass window had become mysteriously opaque; so he raised the sash—to lower it again with all speed, coughing. A thick brown fog, of the brand affectionately known among its habitual inhalers as "London particular," was lying in a sulphurous pall over the choking city.
"All the same, my lad," decided Philip, "you had better trot out and post it. It will be delivered at Tite Street to-morrow morning, and perhaps some Christian person there will forward it. Perhaps Jean Leslie will. Wish I could post myself, too," he added wistfully. "Hello, what's that?"
From the little lobby outside came the sharp rat-tat of a knocker—low, clear, and rhythmical. To judge by the sound, the outer door was standing open, and some person unknown was indulging in a playful little tattoo.
"Officers' wives get pudding and pies,
Soldiers' wives get skill-y!"
it said.
Philip's heart almost broke from its moorings. Hastily he picked up the shaded lamp from the table and turned its light to illuminate the doorway.