"Ah! well, it's early yet. Hot ain't it? Mind if I get myself a peg?" He was crossing to the decanter when he stopped, drew an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table before Mr. Torrington.
"What do you make of that?" he asked. "Came early this morning, no post mark—nothing—just slipped through the box."
Hilbert Torrington took from the envelope a single flower pressed almost flat. It was a dog rose.
"Odd," he muttered, "distinctly odd." He weighed the flower in his hand and sniffed the envelope critically. It had no scent. "You have no one, Almont—I mean, there isn't anyone who'd be likely to—Well, you're a young man."
"Oh, Lord! no, nothing of that kind."
And Almont's inflection suggested that the very idea of such a thing caused him pain.
Hilbert Torrington pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling.
"What does a dog rose suggest to you, Cassis?"
"A silly interruption," replied that gentleman sourly.
"Yes, yes, but was there not—dear me, it's so long ago I've almost forgotten—was there not some floral Lingua Franca—Ah! the language of flowers."