"No, thanks," I said. "I've got a pencil. That will do quite well."
I turned back the cloth, and began to write, while the good lady, breathing heavily, stood and watched me.
"DEAR BILLY,"—I began,—"I'm writing this in your room, as your landlady will no doubt tell you when you come home. I wired you this afternoon, saying I was going to look you up; but thanks to your disgraceful habit of staying out all night, the wire is sitting up, unopened, in your looking-glass.
"If you haven't fixed your business with Seatons, chuck it at once. I've got something for you much more in your line. I can't explain now, but there's plenty of money in it, and I want you bad, Billy, very bad.
"Come along and see me directly you get this. I'm staying at 46A Park Lane. It's in the telephone book under the name of Stuart Northcote, so if you like you can ring me up first. If you do, ask for Mr. Northcote, not for me, and the same thing if you come to the house. Don't make any mistake about this. In case I'm out, the servants will have instructions to ask you to wait, but you're not to mention my name, under any circumstances. Just ask for Mr. Northcote.
"I suppose this sounds mysterious, but I'll explain as soon as I see you.
"Don't fail me, Billy. It's the real goods all round."
I signed this "Jack Burton," and then folded it up and put it in the envelope, which I carefully fastened. I was not in the least anxious for Billy's landlady to read it, so, in order to give the gum a chance to dry, I felt in my pocket and produced a handful of money, from which I slowly counted out five shillings. She watched me with absorbed interest.
"May I offer you this," I said, "for putting you to so much trouble?"
"It's a pleasure, sir," she murmured, eagerly accepting the coins. "Allus glad to oblige a gen'l'man."