Of course Roland immediately began to scrutinize them: turning them over; critically guessing at the senders; playing with them at pitch and toss—anything to while away the time, and afford him some cessation from his own work. By these means he contrived to pass five minutes rather agreeably (estimating things by comparison), when Mr. Galloway’s servant entered.
“Is my master in, Mr. Roland?”
“Of course he’s not,” said Roland. “He’s gone gallivanting somewhere. He has all the pleasure of it, and I have all the work.”
“Will you please to give him this letter, then?” said the man. “The post has just left it at our house, so I brought it round.”
“What’s it brought round here for?” asked Roland.
“Because he ordered it to be done. He said he expected a letter would be delivered at the house by the afternoon post, and if it came I was to bring it to him at once. Good afternoon, sir.”
This little bit of information was quite enough for Roland. He seized the letter, as he had done the others, and subjected it to the same scrutiny. The address was written in a singular hand; in large, print-looking letters. Roland satisfied his curiosity, so far as the outside of the letter could do it, and then rose from his stool and laid the three letters upon Mr. Galloway’s desk in his private room.
A short time, and that gentleman entered. “Anything by the post?” was his first question.
“Two letters, sir,” replied Roland. “And John brought round one, which was addressed to the house. He said you expected it.”
Mr. Galloway went into his private room. He glanced casually at the addresses on the letters, and then called Roland Yorke. “Where is the letter John brought round?” he inquired, somewhat testily.