“Ah, by the way,” cried Jerry Gaines, “speaking of your uncle’s fortune reminds me of a letter I have in my pocket for you, which came to your New York address, and instead of forwarding it, waited and brought it, delaying the delivery of it but a day.”
“If you will read it, and tell me the contents of it, I shall be obliged to you,” said John, wearily.
“By George, now that I come to remember it, there were two letters for you which I slipped into my pocket, and now, as I live, I can find but one of them,” declared Jerry Gaines, much perturbed.
“Do not trouble over it, Jerry,” said Dinsmore. “If it relates to anything of the least consequence, the writer will be sure to write again.”
“You are kind to find pardon for me,” returned Gaines, adding, ruefully: “I shall never forgive myself for not taking better care of your mail, old fellow, if it turns out that I have mislaid something of importance to you.”
The truth was, fate had taken charge of the letter in question, which was the one from Queenie Trevalyn, recalling him, by causing it to slip through the torn lining of the young reporter’s pocket, to be found protruding through the black lining of that self-same coat many a long day later.
Jerry Gaines attended to the commission of opening the remaining letter mechanically, and as he drew the folded sheet of paper from the envelope, lo! a photograph rolled forth from it—the portrait of a very youthful, but a very lovely slip of a girl, and penciled in a scrawling, irregular, schoolgirl hand, was the name Jess, simply that and no more.
He handed the photograph to Dinsmore, while Ballou, with the freedom of an old friend, got up, and coming close to the bedside, looked curiously over John’s shoulder.
“If this is the writer of the letter, she is certainly a stranger to me,” remarked Dinsmore, slowly, studying curiously the lovely face laughing up at him, for the picture represented a girl, not smiling after the usual fashion, but, indeed, laughing heartily, and with all her might, straight into your eyes, and challenging an amused smile in return from even the gravest lips.
She could not be over fifteen or sixteen. The oval face, with its every dimple displayed, was bewitching, with every promise of future beauty with a year or two added to the girl’s years.