The table grew still while the Superintendent opened a wallet capable of holding a couple of folios and very carefully withdrew a piece of notepaper which he held by a sheath of blotter fastened with a clip.
“Take it by the corner, if you please, and mind it don’t catch fire. That was a neat trick somebody played on me last evening, but I’ll thank you not to repeat it,” he admonished a trifle grimly, opening the note and handing it to Mrs. Bartholomew, whose eyes grew twice their size within two seconds while they were fixed on the writing.
“What does it say?” chorused half a dozen voices, but Mrs. Bartholomew could only give a huge swallow and an audible sigh, and handed the paper to Maryvale without looking at him.
“Read it to us,” besought Crofts, who sat at the far end of the table and whose turn would not come for at least a couple of minutes.
Maryvale complied. “ ‘Sir,—Will no plain speech cause you or your principals to understand that the die is cast and the snowball is rolling downhill!’ ” A long low whistle broke from the reader’s lips.
“Go on!” (from Crofts.)
“Oh, Mr. Maryvale, that’s not fair!”
“Don’t stop, please.”
“For God’s sake, go on!”
“I will go on,” said the man of business. “ ‘My deeds be on my head!’ ”