three-and-thirty years at eleven a.m. next Monday morning. I only hope I've done right, that's all."
As he spoke the chief bookkeeper, who had the treble advantage of being tall, pretty, and just eight-and-twenty years of age, entered the room. She noticed the open letter and the look upon her chief's face, and her curiosity was proportionately excited.
"You seem worried, Mr. McPherson," she said softly, putting down the papers she had brought in for his signature.
"You have just hit it, Miss O'Sullivan," he answered, pushing them further on to the table. "I am worried about many things, but particularly about this letter."
He handed the epistle to her, and being desirous of impressing him with her business capabilities, she read it with ostentatious care. But it was noticeable that when she reached the signature she too turned back to the beginning, and then deliberately read it over again. The manager rose, crossed to the mantelpiece, and rang for the head waiter. Having relieved his feelings in this way, he seated himself again at his writing table, put on his glasses, and stared at his companion, waiting for her to speak.
"It's very funny," she said at length, seeing that she was expected to say something. "Very funny, indeed!"
"It's the most extraordinary communication I ever received," he replied with conviction. "You see it is written from Cuyaba, Brazil. The date is three months ago to a day. Now I have taken the trouble to find out where and what Cuyaba is."
He made this confession with an air of conscious pride, and having done it laid himself back in his chair, stuck his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat,
