“Yes, I am Captain Chutney,” he replies to the servant. “Thank you,” and, taking the blue document, he stands for a moment in deep thoughtfulness.
Well may he hesitate to break that official seal which glares up at him so broadly. Were the gift of futurity his, and could he see mirrored before him the dread panorama of events that are inevitably linked with that innocent-looking missive, he would fling it with horror-stricken hands into the coal-fire that burns on the grate beside him.
But no disturbing thought enters his mind. The future looks bright and cheerful enough just at present, and ripping open the end of the envelope without breaking the seal, he pulls out a folded paper and reads:
Colonial Office, Downing Street, S. W.
To Captain Guy Chutney:
Your immediate presence is requested on urgent affairs.
(Signed) ——— ———
Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs.
Chutney looks with some surprise at the famous signature attached with a bold hand. He places the letter in his pocket, pushes open a swinging door at the left, and vanishes up a broad stairway.
In five minutes he reappears, clad in a big mackintosh, and, calling a cab, he rattles off westward through the fog.