“Yes, Sir: Mr. Thompson, please, Sir.”
“Very well; ask him to wait a moment,” said he, and he wrote as follows:—
“Mr. Longcluse takes the liberty of returning Mr. Arden's letter, and begs to decline any correspondence with him.”
And this note, with Richard Arden's letter, he enclosed in an envelope, and addressed to that gentleman.
While this correspondence, by no means friendly, was proceeding, other letters were interesting, very profoundly, other persons in this drama.
Old David Arden had returned early from a ponderous dinner of the magnates of that world which interested him more than the world of fashion, or even of politics, and he was sitting in his study at half-past ten, about a quarter of a mile westward of Mr. Longcluse's house in Bolton Street.
Not many letters had come for him by the late post. There were two which he chose to read forthwith. The rest would, in Swift's phrase, keep cool, and he could read them before his breakfast in the morning. The first was a note posted at Islington. He knew his niece's pretty hand. This was an “advice” from Mortlake. The second which he picked up from the little pack was a foreign letter, of more than usual bulk.
