He lifted the grey coat which hung over a chair, and felt in all its pockets. At last, from the outer one, he unearthed a pocket handkerchief and a letter addressed to
O. Allonby, Esq.,
At "The Fountain Head,"
Edge Combe,
South Devon.
"I hope he'll forgive my opening it, poor chap," said Claud, and he pulled the paper from its envelope.
The address, as is customary in letters between people who know each other intimately, was insufficient. It was merely "7, Mansfield Road." He glanced over the beginning—it was quaint enough.
"How are you getting on, old man? We are being fried alive here, and the weather has put old C—— into such an unbearable rage that Jac says he has brought out the old threat once more, all the girls are to be turned out of the R. A. schools!"
The reader was sorely tempted to continue this effusion, but nobly skipped all the rest of the closely-written sheet, and merely looked at the signature.
"Always your loving sister,
"Wyn."
"How much trouble young ladies would save, if only they would sign their names properly!" said Claud, somewhat exasperated. "However, if she is his sister I suppose it is fair to conclude her name to be Allonby. Wyn Allonby!"
He turned to the envelope, and in a moment of inspiration bethought him of the postmark. It bore the legend, London, S. W.
"That's enough!" he said, "now I can telegraph. That's all I wanted to know. Mrs. Battishill, will you kindly take all these things and lock them up in a drawer, please, for Mr. Allonby's people to have when they come."