"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I got a letter to-day, which I haven't opened. Excuse me a moment, old chap."
So saying, he pulled a letter from his pocket, opened it, and read it.
He told me the contents.
It was from Miss Phillips, and she told her dearest Jack that her father was about moving to Quebec to live.
CHAPTER XI.
"MACRORIE, MY BOY, HAVE YOU BEEN TO ANDERSON'S YET?"—"NO."—"WELL, THEN, I WANT YOU ATTEND TO THAT BUSINESS OF THE STONE TO-MORROW. DON'T FORGET THE SIZE—FOUR FEET BY EIGHTEEN INCHES; AND NOTHING BUT THE NAME AND DATE. THE TIME'S COME AT LAST. THERE'S NO PLACE FOR ME BUT THE COLD GRAVE, WHERE THE PENSIVE PASSER-BY MAY DROP A TEAR OVER THE MOURNFUL FATE OF JACK RANDOLPH. AMEN. R. I. P."
Such was the remarkable manner in which Jack Randolph accosted me, as he entered my room on the following day at about midnight. His face was more rueful than ever, and, what was more striking, his clothes and hair seemed neglected. This convinced me more than any thing that he had received some new blow, and that it had struck home.
"You seem hard hit, old man," said I. "Where is it? Who is it?"
Jack groaned.
"Has Miss Phillips come?"