"Told you 'm going to keep going long as the wheels go 'round," he mumbled.
"They'd keep going a heap longer if you laid off Sundays," advised Griffith. "I'm no fanatic; but no man can keep at it day and night, this way, without breaking."
"Sooner the better!" growled Blake. "You go tuck yourself into your cradle."
Griffith shook his head dubiously and was shuffling out when he heard a knock at the hall door of the living-room. He hastened to respond, and soon returned with a dainty envelope. Blake was again poring over his plans and figures. The older man tossed the missive upon the desk.
"Hey, wake up," he cackled. "Letter from one of your High Society lady friends. Flunkey in livery for messenger."
"Livery?" echoed Blake. "Brown and yellow, eh?—as if his clothes had malaria."
"No. Dark green and black."
Blake started to his feet, his face contorted with the conflict of his emotions. "Don't joke!—for God's sake! That's hers!"
Griffith ripped the note from its envelope and held it out. Blake clutched it from him, and opened up the sheet with trembling fingers, to find the signature. For a moment he stood staring at it as if unable to believe his own eyes. Then he turned to the heading of the note and began to read.
"Well?" queried Griffith, as the other reached the end and again stood staring at the signature.