The postman’s ring was heard at the gate. The postman was never allowed to go up the avenue. Mr. Leeson kept a box locked in the gate, with a little slit for the postman to drop in the letters. He allowed no one to open this box but himself. Without even putting on his greatcoat, he went down the snowy path now, unlocked the box, and took out a letter. He returned with it to the house; it was addressed to himself, and was from his broker in London. The letter contained news which affected him pretty considerably. The gold mine in which he had invested nearly the whole of his available capital was discovered to be by no means so rich in ore as was at first anticipated. Prices were going down steadily, and the shares which Mr. Leeson had bought were now worth only half their value.
“I’ll sell out—I’ll sell out this minute,” thought the wretched man; “if I don’t I shall lose all.”
But then he paused, for there was a postscript to the letter.
“It would be madness to sell now,” wrote the broker. “Doubtless the present scare is a passing one; the moment the shares are likely to go up then sell.”
Mr. Leeson flung the letter from him and tore his gray hair. He paced up and down the room.
“Disaster after disaster,” he murmured. “I am like Job; all these things are against me. But nothing cuts me like Sylvia. To buy those things—two trunks full of useless finery! Oh yes, I have money on the premises—money which I saved and never invested; I wonder if that is safe. For all I can tell——But, oh, no, no, no! I will not think that. That way madness lies. I will bury the canvas bag to-night; I have delayed too long. No one can discover that hiding-place. I will bury the canvas bag, come what may, to-night.”
Mr. Leeson wrote to his broker, telling him to seize the first propitious moment to sell out from the gold-mine, and then sat moodily, getting colder and colder, in front of the empty grate.
Sylvia came in presently.
“Dinner is ready, father,” she said.
“I don’t want dinner,” he muttered.