“Herbert was not that kind of a boy,” said Grant. “He had no fondness for adventure.”
“I have known Herbert longer than you, young man,” retorted the housekeeper, with a sneer.
“It is very clear that you didn't know him as well,” said Mr. Reynolds.
Mrs. Estabrook sniffed, but said nothing. Without expressly saying so, it was evident that she dissented from Mr. Reynolds' opinion.
The broker's loss unfitted him for work, and he left the details of office work to his subordinates, while nearly all his time was spent in interviews with the police authorities or in following up faint clews. His loss seemed to strengthen the intimacy and attachment between him and Grant, in whom he confided without reserve. When at home in the evening he talked over with Grant, whom he found a sympathetic listener, the traits of the stolen boy, and brought up reminiscences, trifling, perhaps, but touching, under the circumstances. To Mrs. Estabrook he seldom spoke of his son. Her cold and unsympathetic temperament repelled him. She had never preferred to feel any attachment for Herbert, and the boy, quick to read her want of feeling, never cared to be with her.
One morning, after Mr. Reynolds and Grant had gone out, Mrs. Estabrook, on going to the hall, saw a letter on the table, which had been left by the postman. As curiosity was by no means lacking in the housekeeper's composition, she took it up, and peered at the address through her glasses.
It was directed to Mr. Reynolds in a round, schoolboy hand.
Mrs. Estabrook's heart gave a sudden jump of excitement.
“It's Herbert's handwriting,” she said to herself.
She examined the postmark, and found that it was mailed at Scipio, Illinois.