John looked up quickly.
“It was torn, and not over-easy to read,” went on David. “I’ve got it here. You can read it if you like.”
He felt in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his pocket-book. From it he took a letter.
John took the yellow paper with its faded ink lines. As he touched it he thought of the queer twists fate gives to the wheel of our life. Less than a fortnight ago he had set eyes but momentarily upon one of the Delancey family, and now here he was, thrown into their midst, made participator even in their extraordinary history. It was, so mused John, a bit of a marvel.
Here is the letter he read.
“My dear son Richard:
“I am about to set forth on the journey of which you know the purpose. If I am successful you will claim your birthright. Though I sold mine, after the manner of Esau, for a mess of red pottage, being forced thereto by harshness, yet I forfeited it for myself alone.
“Your mother and brother do not know of the purpose of my journey to England. I think it well that it should remain known to us two alone till my return.
“Your affectionate father,
“Henry Delancey.”