“Certainly; you have time to do that while I speak for a carriage and pay the bill.”
I procured note paper and envelopes for her, and went down to settle my account at the office. The polite book-keeper asked me to indicate the name on the register. I told him I had not written it. I had wound my handkerchief around my right hand, which I held up to him, and declared that I was unable to use a pen. He was kind enough to offer to render me the service himself.
“C. Gaspiller,” I added, when he was ready to write.
“What is it, sir?”
“C. Gaspiller.”
He wrote “C. Caspeare,” and I was entirely satisfied.
“Three dollars, Mr. Caspeare,” said he; and I gave him the amount, though it was one dollar more than the regular charge.
I was confident that I was leaving no trace of myself here. A carriage was ordered for me, and my trunks were loaded. I went up for Lilian, and found that she had finished her letter. She gave it to me to be stamped and mailed. I took a stamp from my porte-monnaie, carefully adjusted it upon the envelope, and put the letter in my pocket. Of course I was not stupid enough to mail it, since it would betray my secret to those who could not see the necessity of keeping it.
“This is very sudden, Paley,” said Lilian, as the carriage drove off.