A Packet of Letters

OME, Milly, be reasonable,” the extremely good-looking young man implored.

The exceedingly pretty young woman—pretty in spite of the paint—smiled coldly into the mirror and put the finishing touch to her left eyebrow. “Reasonable from your point of view,” she remarked, laying down the pencil. “You must think me an absurdly obliging sort of person, Mr. Leslie.”

“But you can't deny that a thousand pounds is a very decent—in fact, a most magnificent—offer for a couple of dozen of old letters.”

“Twenty-seven, Mr. Leslie.”

“Well—er—that works out at—er—nearly fifty pounds apiece.”

“What a head you have for figures!”

He laughed in spite of himself. “It's nothing to my eye,” he said, with a glance of admiration.

The girl shrugged her bare shoulders. Then, suddenly, she turned and faced him. “I don't want Sir Richard Harmer's money,” she said, and taking a cigarette from the dressing-table, she lit it methodically, and lay back in the rickety chair, crossing the exquisite ankles that were no small part of her fortune. “You understand, Mr. Leslie, I don't want his money.”

The words “Then what on earth do you want?” rose to his lips, but he did not—could not—utter them. Yet they would have been justifiable enough, he thought, a trifle sulky under this, his latest, defeat.

“For the last three weeks,” she continued calmly, “you have been making me offers for your friend's letters. From two hundred pounds you have advanced to a thousand. To-morrow you will offer—”

“I assure you, Miss Lexington,” he stiffly interrupted, “that this is the absolute limit—”

“So glad you realize that much,” she remarked flippantly. “I think I have been exceedingly patient.” A boy's voice in the passage was singing out “Third act beginners,” and she added: “I have to be on the stage in four minutes. Wouldn't you like to go now?”

“Milly, for Heaven's sake be generous. You know I loathe this business—”

“I almost believe you do,” she said, not unkindly, “and I'll admit that you have done your best for your friend. You may tell him so, with my compliments.”

“But—but what are you going to do with Dicky's letters?”

“Keep them and c-cry over them.” The sob was so perfectly done that for an instant he thought it genuine. He flushed when her eyes told him his mistake. “Whose affair is it, what I do with them?” she demanded sharply.

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered, “but don't you feel a little mean? After all, you can't deny that you refused to marry Dicky when he asked you.”

“Did I? I was under the impression that I asked him to think it over for six months and let me do the same.”

Leslie's color deepened further. His friend's version had been somewhat different, and yet he could not disbelieve the girl's. “I'm sure Dicky never regarded it as a formal engagement,” he said in his struggling loyalty.

“I don't think I mentioned the word engagement. Did I?”

“I don't understand you.... Look here, Milly, tell me honestly what you want to keep the letters for. Have mercy on Dicky. His wedding is the week after next—the twenty-fourth, and—frankly—he's in a hideous state of nerves. Remember, he was awfully young when—”

“A year does make a difference!” she said ironically. “No doubt his having come into the title and money has aged him terribly! It would be rude to suggest that his sudden betrothal to the daughter of an earl had had that effect—wouldn't it?”

“Oh, I say, don't chaff!”

“My dear Mr. Leslie,” she said, throwing her cigarette into the tray, “has it not occurred to you that I might be feeling pretty bitter at missing a title and twenty thousand a year?”

He looked at her in alarm; then all at once his expression softened. “I don't think you could convince me of that,” he said earnestly.

“Thanks,” she lightly returned. “But”—her voice was hard again—“have you never thought that your friend might have asked for his letters direct instead of employing a go-between?”

Once more the young man colored.

“You don't seem to have any very good excuses for your friend,” she went on presently. “Well, I'm not going to accuse or abuse Sir Richard Harmer, Bart., to his faithful ally. I will only say to you, Mr. Leslie, that even a dancing girl may object to being treated as I have been treated—not necessarily because she is in love with the man—or boy, if you insist on the word. I think that is all.”

She rose; he followed suit, feeling wretched, helpless and ashamed—as much, perhaps, of himself as of the failure of his mission.

For a silent moment he regarded the lovely, graceful creature in the flame-colored silks.

“Won't you say anything?” he whispered in sheer desperation.

“Good-bye, Mr. Leslie.”

“But about the letters—what am I to say to Dicky? Simply that you insist on keeping them?”

“Oh, you must not tell your friend such an untruth.”

“An untruth —Why?—What are you saying, Milly? For pity's sake explain! We—we used to be good friends, before all this miserable trouble. Come, tell me you are going to be generous and give them up. Milly, dear old girl!”—he caught her hand—“will you give them to me, and end the horrid business? I'll do anything in the world for you. You'll never want a friend—that is, if you'll have me for one. I ask your pardon for the way I've behaved, these last few weeks.... Milly, do the big thing, and let me have them to-night. I don't suppose you have them here, but—”

“No,” she said quietly, withdrawing her hand, “they are not here.”

“Then let me give you supper and see you home to-night—”

“Nor are they there.” A tap fell on the door. “I must go!”

“Stay! Where are they?”

“In the post-office.” Her lips twitched at the corners. “I posted them—registered—on my way to the theater to-night.”

“Posted them!” he gasped.

“It had struck me that they would make a rather unique wedding present.” The smile escaped.

“Milly, you glorious girl!” he exclaimed. “Oh, you're magnificent! A wedding present for poor old Dicky—”

She gave a cruel little laugh, and opened the door.

“What a pretty idea!” she said mockingly.

“Milly!”

“You're a dull boy! Your friend isn't the only person getting wedding presents just now—”

“Don't tell me—you've sent them to—”

“The daughter of the belted earl? What? Good-bye.”

She was gone.

“Good Lord!” Aghast, the young man leaned against the door-post.

Down below the music changed. A gust of applause came up to his unheeding ears, as the favorite appeared on the stage, saying to herself: “I'm afraid poor old Dicky is going to have a bad night.”

ATER in the evening the two most distracted young men in London were to be found in the smoking-room of Sir Richard Harmer's flat.

“I say again, it was a fiendish, devilish thing to do,” the baronet was observing for at least the tenth time.

“That's so,” his friend admitted patiently, “but it isn't particularly helpful. The question is: What's to be done—or, rather, is there anything that can be done?”

Sir Richard looked as serious as a naturally dull-witted young man can look: which is very serious indeed. “The packet,” he said slowly, “will be delivered by the postman in the morning. You don't happen to know at which office it was handed in?”

“It won't be there now, anyway,” Leslie returned. “And, my dear Dicky, don't begin to hope that there's the slightest chance of recovering the packet from the post-office, either by burglary or bribery—”

“But we must get it somehow! Ruby would never forgive me, and if the Earl—oh, you know what an old puritan he is, especially about the stage.”

“I don't think you need—or ought—to be concerned about anyone except Lady Ruby,” said Leslie, stiffly. It was being borne in upon him that his friend was showing up rather badly. “And I'm beginning to think,” he added, “that there is only one thing for you to do—”

“What?”

“Make a clean breast of it to the girl you are going to marry.”

“Heavens! You don't mean that!” In his agitation the baronet flicked his cigarette ash into his tumbler and raised the deep silver ash receptacle almost to his lips. He laughed foolishly.

Leslie did not even smile. “I can't see any other way, Dicky. Write now and tell her the truth. Have your letter delivered express, in front of the postman. I shouldn't wonder if she burns Milly's packet without opening it—Why, what's the matter?”

The other's expression was all of horrified dismay.

“And you call yourself my friend!”

“Have I not proved it? Hang it, man, have I not been doing your dirty work for the last three weeks?”

“And a nice mess you've made of it!”

“I?”

“Yes, you! I believe you put it into her head to send the letters to Ruby.”

Red with anger, Leslie sprang to his feet. “That's enough!” he cried. “I'll leave you to stew in your own juice, you miserable funk!” He dashed from the room.

The wretched young baronet overtook him at the outer door.

“Don't desert me now, Leslie,” he besought. “I didn't mean it—didn't know what I was saying. Of course I know that you have done everything a chap could do for his pal. I must have your help....”

Leslie who, after all, was only a degree less weak of nature than Harmer, allowed himself to be coaxed back to the smoking-room. To tell the truth, he could not afford a quarrel with Harmer; for from whom but his wealthy friend could he hope for help to meet that horrible promissory note due a week thence? He had honestly endeavored to be single-hearted in his negotiations with Milly Lexington; nevertheless he had striven for success for his own sake as well as his friend's. With the letters safely secured he could say, in effect, to Dicky: “Look here, old man, I've helped you out of a pretty awful hole, and now I'm in one myself.”

He permitted Harmer to recharge the long tumbler and accepted a cigarette from the host's golden box.

“I gave you the best advice I could—er—think of,” he said sadly. “It's nearly always better to confess than to be found out.”

“I couldn't do it. I'm too—er—jolly fond of Ruby to break her heart. Besides, she'd chuck me to a cert.”

“But the letters—”

“She hasn't got them yet.”

“She'll get them—for breakfast.” Leslie paused. “You simply can't prevent it, Dicky.”

The baronet sank into his chair and raised his glass—a clean one freshly charged—unsteadily to his lips. “I admit that I personally cannot prevent the packet reaching her,” he said slowly, after a long pull. “I seem to have lost all my nerve, Leslie.” He sighed and proceeded: “You understand, of course, that my offer of a thousand pounds for the letters is still open?”

“Oh!” the other involuntarily exclaimed, “is it?”

“I don't care who gets the cash so long as I get the packet unopened.” Sir Richard drew from his breast-pocket the envelope which Leslie had returned to him an hour earlier. He extracted the little bundle of twenty £50 notes and rustled the corners between his thumb and middle finger. “I should say the postman arrives at Somerset Square sometime between seven-thirty and eight—”

“Only a madman would dream of trying the postman,” said Leslie faintly.

“I happen to know,” the other continued, “that the letters are taken in by Graves, the butler, an aged and fussy person—oh, don't imagine I'm thinking of buying him! But if—if someone were in the hall when the letters were delivered—”

“By Jove!” cried Leslie, with a rush of admiration, “you've got pluck after all, Dicky!”

“I?” said the baronet. “I could never do it myself. The butler knows me as well as he knows—”

“But you could disguise yourself. Why, you've got some old whiskers and things in the house from that Covent Garden ball!”

“I'd betray myself, sure. I haven't the nerve. But you, Leslie—”

“What?”

“You could do it—disguised, of course.”

“Great Jupiter! do you imagine for a moment that I—I'd steal the letters for you?”

“The letters are really mine. You'd be doing a damnably good deed, too—saving an innocent girl a deuce of a lot of unhappiness and—er—so on. Leslie, you must do it.”

“Utterly impossible! Out of the question!”

Sir Richard sat up and wiped his brow. “You're my only hope, Leslie. You've got more brains than I have. You can do the thing for me.... Look here,” he said in an abrupt change of tone, “how much money do you owe at the present moment? Don't resent the question. It's kindly meant. Would this”—he tapped the bundle of notes—“clear you? Come, old chap. Out with it!”

Leslie shook his head.

“H'm!” grunted the baronet. “Would—er—fifteen hundred do it?”

A husky whisper of assent was all the other could produce.

Sir Richard rose. There was a brief rustling and then he dropped ten of the notes on his friend's knees.

“A thousand when you bring me the packet,” he said softly.

“Oh, Lord,” whispered Leslie, “I—I can't accept this... Suppose I can't manage the thing—”

“You'll have tried for it, anyway. But don't think of the beastly money; think of our friendship, you know.”

“But suppose I get caught.”

“I'll swear you did it for a wager.”

“If—if only the thing hadn't been registered....”

“All the easier for you to spot it! Now let us discuss details—confound it! this decanter's empty.”

“No more for me,” said Leslie.

Sir Richard smiled and rang the bell.

T was a most disagreeable morning, cold, wet and gusty. At a quarter-to-eight it was still all but dark. The black-bearded, bespectacled, foreign-looking person in the long dark coat and soft felt hat, who had entered Somerset Square, a few yards behind the postman, shivered, nay, shuddered. Lights gleamed from the windows of the Square; here and there a servant was visible at a door, and on the north side a milk-cart broke the monotony; but on the south side, road and pavement stretched emptily in front of the two individuals just mentioned.

The postman had nothing for No. 1, and when he failed to mount the steps there, the foreign-looking person appeared to increase his pace. When, however, the postman ascended to No. 2, the other slowed down, then spurted, but in no very noticeable fashion. He was ringing the bell of No. 3 when the postman was leaving No. 2.

An elderly, austere-faced manservant opened the door, and the foreign-looking person at once said, producing a small package—

“I vas entroosted to deleever zis to ze Lady Ruby. Eet ees mos' important—valuable. I haf to deleever eet in her own han's, please.”

The butler replied that her Ladyship had not yet come downstairs, adding—ironically, perhaps that a little time might elapse ere she did so.

“I haf come straight from ze gontinental train, for I fear to be stole—robbed. I vill vait for ze Lady Ruby.”

The postman was now behind him.

“Step inside,” said the butler. “I must take the letters first.”

The foreign-looking person stepped into the hall. A maid-servant with a tea-tray was passing up the staircase. No one else was about.

The butler received a bundle of letters, also a sealed oblong packet, for which he signed his name on a green slip, and closed the door.

“You look honest man,” remarked the stranger. “I trust you wis ze valuable, if you vill bring me ze han'—write—recipe—of ze Lady Ruby.”

“Well, well,” said the old man testily—he was slowly sorting the mail on a side table—“wait, and I'll ring for her ladyship's maid.”

“Nein. I entroost eet only to you,” said the other, moving forward and pushing his package under the butler's nose. Then he squeezed it—the package—sharply.

The butler, throwing out his hands, staggered back with a fearful gasp, and next moment the hall resounded with his sneezes. The foreign-looking person snatched the sealed packet, dropped it into his pocket, wrenched the big key from the door, opened the door, slipped out, shut it and locked it on the outside. He was ghastly pale as he went almost leisurely down the steps. The pavement was still deserted save for the postman, now at No. 8.

He walked towards the corner. Pulling down his hat brim and lowering his head, he detached his beard and spectacles, and furtively dropped them into the area of No. 1. Keeping his head well down, he turned the corner, and then with a sigh of relief broke into a brisk walk. And suddenly he smiled to think that he had earned fifteen hundred pounds.

Possibly he would not have smiled had he been aware that his beard and spectacles had dropped between the faces of a little scullery maid and a page boy engaged in a mild matutinal flirtation. Before the maid had finished her screech the page boy was at the street level. No one there. Round the corner he darted. A little way off a man was getting into a taxi. The page boy, who happened to have his wits in good order, took the number.

IR RICHARD HARMER had not been up so early for many a day, which may have accounted for the “awful head” which had been added to his other troubles. In his dressing-gown he sat before the breakfast-room fire and watched the clock. Now and then he groaned,

When the clock struck eight he muttered: “He has failed—confound him for a bungler! Heaven knows—”

His man showed in Leslie who, the instant the door was closed, executed a little pas seul and hoarsely whispered, “Victory.” He then tossed the precious packet to his friend.

“By Jove! you are a brick!” cried Dicky, pale with the revulsion. “I'm more grateful than I can say. And won't Milly be mad! Disguised writing, too, the little vixen! Lend me your knife, old chap. And, I say, you might stir up the fire. We'll get rid of the horrors at once.”

He cut the string, tore it off, shattering the seals, and removed the stiff yellow paper. Inside was a thin greenish wrapper.

“Done it daintily, too—eh?” said Leslie, wielding the poker.

“Tell me how you managed it all, old chap—God bless you! Tissue paper, too, no less!”

“Why, it was wonderfully simple, though—”

“Good Gad!” Sir Richard almost screamed. “What the devil is this?”

At that moment his man entered and laid on the table the morning's post. On the top of the correspondence was a sealed packet.

“I signed for it, Sir Richard,” the man remarked, and withdrew.

“Open it— !” exclaimed Dicky, whose shaking hands were clutching a small oblong leather case.

Leslie, looking ill, obeyed. There was only one wrapper of not very fresh paper. Inside was a bundle of bulky letters, very badly written, to judge by the topmost specimen on which reposed a lady's card. Leslie held the card so that his unhappy friend might read the message on it.

Sir Richard's utterance shall not be set down here. It was mainly abusive.

“Well, I did my best for you,” said Leslie at last, with a sound suspiciously like a sob. “And the dashed thing looked as if it contained letters.”

“Instead of which,” said Sir Richard, emitting a ghastly laugh, “it contains four cursed, silly, useless little salt-cellars with Aunt Arabella's love and best wishes—confound the blithering old fool! What a kettle of fish! What the deuce am I to do?”

“Why,” exclaimed Leslie, as with an inspiration, “it's quite simple! Tie up the case and post it, re-registered, to Lady Ruby.”

“Just what I was going to suggest,” said the baronet, after a moment. “Well, go ahead. I never could make a parcel.” He held out the case, wrapper and all.

Leslie deposited the letters with their wrapper on the table and laid the salt-cellar package alongside of it; he carefully refolded the coverings of both.

“Now, Dicky,” he said pleadingly, “don't be too hard on a fellow who was only doing his best for you. Don't you see that the one packet looks as likely to contain a bundle of letters as the other—now, doesn't it?”

“Oh, shut up!” said Dicky impatiently, “and get the dashed thing ready for the post.”

“All right.... But I must have fresh string and some sealing-wax.”

The servant soon provided string, but had, eventually, to go out to purchase sealing-wax. On his return—

“Aren't you going to have any breakfast to-day?” mildly inquired Leslie, who had got the string into a horrid tangle. “I'm beastly peckish,” he added, rubbing his nose with the scarlet stick. “There's no special hurry—”

“Look here, my friend! That packet has to go to the post before— Hullo! what on earth is happening now?”

From the hall came the sound of a disturbance, and then the door opened to admit a procession consisting of the Earl of Verdigross, a taxi-driver, a boy in buttons, and a burly individual in dark tweeds, whom you would have recognized as a detective a mile away.

After a searching glance round the room, the burly individual stepped over to the hearth and picked up a piece of paper. It was a label bearing the words:

With a nod of satisfaction he handed it to the Earl.

The Earl boiled over, as it were. His aged butler had been foully assaulted, he himself had been dragged from bed at an unearthly hour, and a registered packet addressed to his daughter, the Lady Ruby, had been most impudently stolen. Further—the Earl adjusted his glasses and tapped the label with a long, pointed forefinger—the thief had been traced to—h'm—the present spot.

“A mere joke,” blurted Sir Richard. “He”—indicating the squirming Leslie—“did it for a bet.”

To Leslie, with whom he had affably hob-nobbed but three nights ago, the Earl vouchsafed a glance of freezing hauteur, remarking: “A singularly ill-timed jest, the taste of which I may discuss with Sir Richard Harmer later. Meantime I request to be put in immediate possession of my daughter's property.”

“Give him it, for Heaven's sake,” moaned the wretched baronet.

“Certainly, certainly, your lordship,” stammered Leslie. “Permit me to t-t-tie it up for you—”

“Tush!” said his lordship impatiently, and seized the packet which Leslie's trembling hand had taken from the table. Without a word he turned and led his followers from the room.

Sir Richard's remarks must again be suppressed.

“Never mind, old man,” said Leslie feebly, “it will all come right. You've got the letters, anyway.”

“Give me them,” cried Sir Richard, starting up; “the cursed things—”

Leslie handed him the remaining packet.

He opened it.

The case of salt-cellars....

IR RICHARD is still single. The Lady Ruby has not died of a broken heart; she is, in fact, again engaged. Mr. Leslie has gone abroad, after asking Milly Lexington to fly with him, and, incidentally, putting her in possession of the whole story.

On the night which heard her quite decided refusal to fly, she danced as usual—well, almost as usual. For in the midst of one of her whirlwinds she burst out laughing, which so delighted the audience that the management offered her another twenty pounds a week to explode nightly in that fashion.