P. S. Wilkins tells me the accompanying package belongs to you.
“Thank the Lord!” ejaculated Dick, aloud. “Your note’s a direct answer to my unspoken wish. You want to see me, Miss Beatrice, but I bet not half so badly as I want to see you. But what does your postscript mean?”
Taking up the small package he looked doubtfully at it. “Best way to find out is to open it,” he muttered, tearing off the string and wrapping paper. It proved to be a small pasteboard box, and on lifting the cover he saw his broken cuff link lying inside on some cotton. It was unmistakable. The round gold button with his interwoven initials “R. T.” stared him in the face.
With a startled cry, he sprang up and pulled out his white waistcoat from the half-opened bureau drawer. Quickly his fingers fumbled in the little pocket—yes, there it was, just where he had put it four nights before. In growing excitement, he jerked out his fingers and disclosed not his broken cuff button, but a round coin attached to a broken, golden link!
With open mouth, and eyes fairly popping from his head, Dick contemplated the two links, while his bewildered mind gradually pieced together the scene in the hall. It was not surprising he had made such a mistake, the two were identical in size; and in the semi-darkness of the large hall and his hurry he had never glanced at the recovered cuff button, but had taken it for granted it was the piece of jewelry he had dropped.
As busy as he was, he had not troubled to get his broken set mended. He had used a second pair the next morning; and this was, therefore the first time he had thought of the broken set since thrusting the button into his waistcoat pocket.
Taking up the coin, he examined it closely. It was apparently very old; the edges were worn thin and the hieroglyphics on the two sides were so defaced he could make nothing of them. It was attached by a swivel to the heavy red-gold link. The link itself was worn at the rough ends, but still it must have been a powerful wrench which had caused it to break off. To Dick it looked like a link torn from a watch chain; and an unusual one at that, for the outer side was delicately etched in some intricate design. Pshaw! What was the use of puzzling his brains, Wilkins could tell him all about it; and with the thought Dick walked over to the closed door, and, opening it, looked into the corridor. But Uncle Andy, tired of waiting, had gone about his work. There was nothing for it but to go to the back stairs and “fetch a yell” for the old darky, as the ancient house boasted of no bell except the one to the front door.
Mrs. Brisbane answered Dick’s stentorian shout from the kitchen, where she had gone to superintend the cooking of the Maryland beaten biscuits for the morning meal.
“What is it, Dick?” she called.
“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Brisbane. Will you please ask Uncle Andy to show the messenger up to my room. Thanks, ever so much.” And Dick retreated hastily, conscious of his pajamas as a female boarder thrust her head out of the door to find out what the noise was about.