"No--no," replied Galbraith; "take the note at once, please."
"Fry pomflit for breakfas, sar," said Manuel, "and prong curry--all spile."
"Never mind, Manuel--we'll have some another day. Take that letter and--run."
Manuel did as he was bidden, and Galbraith watched him shuffling along the road until he reached the corner where Pedro Pinto's liquor stall stood. Manuel hesitated a moment here. A glass of toddy, a liquor made out of the fermented sap of the palmyra, would be very grateful; but--he glanced round only to find the pastor standing at the gate and watching him. With a sigh the Goanese turned and went on; but, now that he had passed the curve of the street, slackened his pace to a leisurely walk. He remained away for more than an hour, during which time Galbraith paced the little veranda impatiently, wondering whether there would be any reply to his note. It was impossible to think of anything else, and each moment seemed to him an age. At intervals he walked to the gate, and looked down the road, but there was no sign of Manuel. At last he saw him turn the corner; whereupon, filled with a sudden terror, John hastily retreated into his study, and began to turn over the leaves of his sermon. He tried to persuade himself that he had retired because it was undignified to watch his servant in this manner, but the thick beating of his heart told him he lied to himself. At last there was a shuffle at the door, and Manuel, coming in, stood before his master silently.
Galbraith looked at him. "Did you give the letter? Was there any answer?"
"Yessar." Manuel produced a little gray square envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Galbraith.
"Very well," said the pastor as he stretched forth his hand to receive the letter, "you can go now."
"Master have tiffin?" inquired Manuel, but Galbraith peremptorily ordered him out of the room. When he had gone John tore the note open. It was written on that abominable pattern of paper which folds like an envelope, and as a consequence, Galbraith in his excitement tore the whole letter in two. With hands that trembled with eagerness he placed the pieces together, and resting them on the table, read the reply--
"I will meet you after church, and we can walk home together."
There was no signature, but Galbraith knew the handwriting. He looked furtively around, and then kissing the precious scraps of paper, locked them carefully away.