“I want you to post a letter for me,” he said.
Driver was too well trained to show amazement at Micky’s instructions, but just for a fractional second he forgot to answer with his usual “Yes, sir,” and stood immovable. Then he recovered himself, and said it twice with hurried apology.
“And am I to go at once, sir?”
“To-morrow morning will do,” Micky said. “You can go by the first boat train.” He looked at the man anxiously. He had a sort of uncomfortable feeling that Driver must be thinking he was not quite right in the head. After a moment he dismissed him.
Then Micky went over to his desk and rummaged amongst the many papers and letters there till he found a sheet of paper embossed with the name of an hotel in Paris. It had not been used, and Micky heaved a sigh of relief.
He went to bed late that night. He forgot all about his promise to go round to the Delands. He spent the time writing letters and tearing them up again till the wastepaper basket was full; then he carried it over to the fireplace and burnt every scrap of paper it contained.
There were two finished letters lying on his desk. One was sealed and addressed, but not stamped, and the other was written on a sheet of Driver’s plain notepaper, which Micky folded and unfolded with a sort of nervous dissatisfaction.
Its contents were not very long, but they had taken a good deal of composing.
“Dear Miss Shepstone,––I received your note in reply to my letter and cannot help saying that I feel very hurt at your decided refusal to allow me to take you out. I thought we were to be friends? Have I been so unfortunate as to offend you? If so, I can only assure you that it has been utterly unintentional. Won’t you let me see you, if only for a moment? I will meet you at any time or place.–– Yours sincerely, MICKEY MELLOWES.”