It came from the shaded lamp of an Englishman, and beneath it with
stubborn, square-jawed determination the Englishman sat at work.
Very steadily his hand moved over the white paper, and the face that
was bent above it never varied--a face that still possessed something
of the freshness of youth though the set of the lips was firm even to
sternness and the line of the chin was hard. He never raised his eyes
as he worked except to refer to the notebook at his elbow. The passage
of time seemed of no moment to him.
Yet at the soft opening of the door, he did look up for an instant, a
gleam of expectancy upon his face that died immediately.
"All right, Sammy, directly," he said, returning without pause to his
work.
Sammy, butler, bearer, and general factotum, irreproachable from his
snowy turban to his white-slippered feet, did not take the hint
to retire, but stood motionless just inside the room, waiting with
statuesque patience till his master should deign to bestow upon him
the favour of his full attention.
After a little Will Musgrave realised this, and with an abrupt sigh
sat back in his chair and rubbed his hand across his forehead.
"Well?" he said then. "You needn't trouble to tell me that the mail
has passed, for I heard the fellow half an hour ago. Of course there
were no letters?"
The man shook his head despondingly.
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