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it was not Symonds. It was a messenger-boy—an impertinent young rascal.

"Mr. John Ferguson? I thought every one was out, I've been knocking for the last ten minutes."

"Have you indeed? I trust the delay has caused you no serious inconvenience. Yes, I am Mr. John Ferguson."

"No answer."

He thrust an envelope into my hand, and turning on his heel, was about to march away. I caught him by the shoulder.

"Pardon me—one second! From whom does this communication come?"

"I say there's no answer."

He wriggled in my grasp.

"I hear you—still, if you could manage to wait for a moment, I think it might be worth your while. Let me beg of you to enter." 156