“I wonder why Mr. Abbott did not read it?”
“Too ill, perhaps—especially if he judged the letter unimportant.”
Trenholm hunted about on his table until he found a letter opener and, using it dextrously, succeeded in raising the flap without breaking the seal. Taking care not to crease or otherwise mar the envelope, he drew out the folded sheet and read aloud the brief message it contained:
Sunnymeade Farm
Toronto, Canada
January 22, 1923
Dear Abbott:
Sorry to learn that you are not well. Perhaps a change may do you good. Why not run up here for a week or two? I will be very happy to put you up if the Nashs are not at their place.
Chisholm says the two grays are seventeen hands and entirely sound. Would advise offer of a thousand for the pair.
Yours in haste,
Boris Zybinn.
Trenholm tossed down the letter in disgust. “Nothing to that!” he exclaimed. “They have fine horses in Canada, and Paul purchased several last year, and sold them at a good figure to one of our neighbors. What is it, Miss Ward?” observing her changed expression.
Without answering, Miriam pulled her chair around so that she sat facing the table. Picking up the letters she spread each one, with its envelope, before her, and slowly counted them.