Gazing upon these souvenirs, his mind went back to the old days of his student-life, and his brother’s companionship. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he recalled himself with a start, pushed the door of the cabinet from him with a hasty movement which left it half unclosed, and turned toward Millie, who entered as demurely as before, closely followed by a footman, who presented to Alan an official-looking letter.
Taking the missive from the salver, Alan dismissed the man and then turned to the girl.
“Well, Millie?”
“Mrs. Warburton says, sir, that she can not leave her room this morning, but hopes to be able to do so this afternoon.”
“Very well, Millie;”—the frown returning to his face—“you may go.” And he muttered: “I suppose that means that she will condescend to receive me this afternoon. Well, I must bide my time.”
He returned to the window, and standing near it, looked curiously at the envelope in his hand. It was addressed in bold, scrawling characters that were, spite of their boldness, almost illegible. Slowly he opened it, and slowly removed the sheet it enclosed.
“What a wretched scrawl!” he muttered. And then, with a glance at the printed letter-head, “Office of the Chief of Police:” “That’s legible, at all events. It’s from—from—hum, strange that a man can’t write his own name—B—B—C— of course, it’s from the Chief of Police.”
Slowly and laboriously, he deciphered the letter.
A. Warburton. etc.
Dear Sir:—We have just secured, for your case, a very valuable man, Mr. Augustus Grip, late of Scotland Yards. He is an able and most successful detective; we hope much from him. Have already instructed him to extent of our ability, and he will wait upon you personally this P. M., between, say, three and four o’clock. You will do well to give Mr. G— full latitude in the case.