He went up to the piano, where Mr Armstrong, still in the clouds, was roaming at will over the chords, and laid his father’s letter on the keyboard.
“Read that, please, Armstrong.”
The tutor wheeled round on his stool, and put up his glass. Something in the boy’s voice arrested him.
He glanced first at his pupil, then at the paper.
“A private letter?” said he.
“I want your help; please read it.”
The tutor’s inscrutable face, as he perused the letter carefully from beginning to end, afforded very little direction to the boy who sat and watched him anxiously. Having read it once, Mr Armstrong turned back to the first page and read it again; and then with equal care perused the codicil. When all was done, he returned them slowly to the envelope and handed it back.
“Well?” said Roger, rather impatiently.
“It is a strange birthday greeting,” said Mr Armstrong, “and comes, I fear, from a mind unhinged. Your father had more than one delusion near the end. But on the night before he died he told me this elder son of his was dead. This was written before that.”
“Tell me exactly what he said.”