At the hotel there was only one letter and no telegrams.
The London bankers wrote:
"We beg to acknowledge yours of yesterday. Your cash balance at date is twelve thousand four hundred and ten pounds nine shillings one penny. Your securities in our possession amount to a net value at to-day's prices of about nine hundred and twenty thousand pounds, including two hundred and fifty thousand pounds Consols at par. We will forward you a detailed list if desired, and will be pleased to realize any securities as directed.
"Kindly note that instructions for sale should be given in your handwriting, and not typed."
There was joy, intoxicating almost to madness, in this communication, but it was not unleavened by the elements of danger and delay.
His signature had been accepted without demur; he could control an enormous sum without question; these were the entrancing certainties which dazzled his eyes for a time.
But it was horribly annoying that a millionaire should keep his current account so low, and the concluding paragraph held a bogey, not wholly unforeseen, but looming large when it actually presented itself.
The memorandum in Philip's handwriting on Evelyn's letter was now thrice precious. He hurriedly scrutinized it, and at once commenced to practice the words.
"Devonshire" and "Sharpe" gave him the capitals for "Dear Sirs." He was at a loss for a capital "C," but he saw that Philip used the simplest and boldest outlines in his caligraphy, and he must risk a "C" without the upper loop. In "Lady M.," too, he had the foundation of the "£" to precede the requisite figures. Soon he framed a letter in the fewest words possible:
"Yours of to-day's date received. Kindly sell Consols value one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and place the same to my credit."
He copied it again and again, until it was written freely and carelessly, and every letter available compared favorably with the original in his possession. Then he posted it, thus saving a day, according to his calculations.