"All men are not of your opinion, Mr Coventry."
The lady's tone was dry. The young gentleman had a tendency in the direction of "high-falutin."
Among his morning's letters on the morrow the first which caught his eye was a missive enclosed in an envelope which was own brother to the one which had contained the notes.
"Another ten thousand pounds," he wailed.
But he was mistaken. Only a sheet of paper was in the envelope. On the sheet of paper two words were type-written:
"Buy Ceruleans."
Mr Coventry endeavoured to calm himself. Constitutionally, he was of an excitable temperament. The endeavour required an effort on his part. When he could trust himself to speak, he delivered himself to this effect:
"What in thunder are Ceruleans? And why am I to buy them?"
He examined the paper; he examined the envelope; he observed that the postmark was "London, E.C."--that could scarcely be regarded as a tangible clue.
The remainder of his correspondence was not of an agreeable tenor. Everybody seemed to be wanting money; moreover, everybody seemed to be wanting it at once. He went downstairs with, metaphorically, "his heart in his boots." On the way down he encountered an acquaintance. Mr Coventry stopped him.