The negro whose duty it was to kindle his fire, hurrying in at his unlocked door, found him there asleep, his face white and ghastly under the glare of the full light. The coal scuttle the boy held fell with a clatter to the floor. Lawson stirred and opened his eyes.
"Boss," the negro chattered, "'fo' Gawd, I thought yuh was daid!"
Lawson looked at him dully.
"I'se late, monstrous late dis mornin'," he blurted, still scared at Lawson's look. "I'll mek yo' fiah in no time!" He knelt before the grate and began cleaning it out with trembling hands.
Lawson still sat, the light shining full on him, his evening clothes, the wilted rose in his button-hole, his heavy coat enwrapping him.
"Pos'man done been long," said the darkey as he slapped on the blower and squatted on his heels to wait the fire's catching, "lef' yuh a lettah." He pointed to a white envelope just under Lawson's fingers. The postman had given it a shove through the slit in the door-panel made for such uses, and it had slidden almost to Lawson's fingers.
He took it listlessly, turned it over, and dropped it as if it had scorched him. Then he picked it up again, looked at it uncertainly; as he read it, all the ghastliness fled from his face.
He sprang to his feet, searched for his suit-case and wrenched open his closet door. He thrust some few clothes in the case.