“I am the secretary of the Gouverneur Faulkner, Mary, and—and—I know—how women—love—men. I—”
“I bet a many of ’em have loved you, God bless your sweet eyes. Good night, sir!”
And with those kind words from the poor female, who was beginning again to sob but with another motive in her weeping, I took my departure down the street—or up—I did not know in just which direction. I had the intention of returning to the house of Madam Taylor to obtain the Cherry, which I had left standing before her door, and in it convey the message to my Gouverneur Faulkner that should bring relief to his anxiety, but I soon found that I had lost myself upon streets that I had never seen before.
What was it that I should do? My heart suffered that my Gouverneur Faulkner should not know the relief of that paper I had in the pocket of my dinner coat, but I could not find myself and I did not know exactly what questions I should ask. Then I bethought me of that telephone, which in America is so much used, but not in France. I entered into a store for medicines upon the corner of one of the streets in my wandering, looked diligently in a book to find the number for the Mansion of the Gouverneur, and after many tellings of my desire, at last my Gouverneur Faulkner made an answer in my ear that was as beautiful in voice as the words he spoke to me in his presence.
“Well?” he asked of me.
“This is Robert Carruthers who speaks.”
“Oh, all right, youngster. How did the fatted pie go?”
“That was a very nice pie, Your Excellency, and I have a paper from that Mary Brown concerning the murder of the brother of good Timms for cruelty to Mary. I wish to give it to you.”
“What do you mean, boy?”
“I have said it.”