Ruffled in temper, chafed in spirit, the Colossus sought distraction in his morning's mail. For the most part his letters were not exciting. But the bonne bouche was still held in reserve. The registered envelope heavily sealed with black wax and ominously edged with a mourning border, which had first caught his attention, he was careful to keep back until all the others had been opened. Finally, as its turn came, he felt a queer little thrill of anticipation as he took it in his fingers.
The emotion it aroused was not wholly agreeable. Nay; it was so odd as to be a little unpleasant. What could such a portentous thing contain? Before breaking the seal he examined it closely. But externals told nothing beyond what was to be deduced from the outside of the envelope, which bore the postmark Charing Cross.
From the inside he took a single sheet of plain note paper. On it were typewritten the following words:
