"A letter from me?" I cried.
"You said your thanks would be expressed in a letter, but the promptitude of it has surprised even yourself, hasn't it? I should have received it yesterday, but that there is no Sunday post, happily."
"You remember I said I was very grateful," said I, still not understanding.
"And I said that gratitude had a queer way of expressing itself sometimes," said he, handing over the letter at last. "Read it aloud," he added; "I find the style original."
"Harley Street, W. 25th April, 1914," I read. "Thomas Wreford, Esquire, debtor to John Everall. For professional services, 1912 to 1913, thirty-eight guineas."
"Go on," he said. "The postscript is where your gratitude becomes the most exuberant."
"Your attention will oblige," I finished.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked with a smile.
"I prefer not to," said I, also smiling tentatively.
There was a silence. "However," said Wreford eventually, "let us say no more about it." At this my smile became firmer and more expansive. "Let us agree," he said significantly, "to let bygones be bygones."