M. Firmin Richard reached his office that morning at eleven
o'clock. His secretary, M. Remy, showed him half a dozen letters
which he had not opened because they were marked "private."
One of the letters had at once attracted Richard's attention not
only because the envelope was addressed in red ink, but because he
seemed to have seen the writing before. He soon remembered that it
was the red handwriting in which the memorandum-book had been
so curiously completed. He recognized the clumsy childish hand.
He opened the letter and read:
DEAR MR. MANAGER:
I am sorry to have to trouble you at a time when you must be
so very busy, renewing important engagements, signing fresh ones
and generally displaying your excellent taste. I know what you
have done for Carlotta, Sorelli and little Jammes and for a few
others whose admirable qualities of talent or genius you have suspected.
Of course, when I use these words, I do not mean to apply them
to La Carlotta, who sings like a squirt and who ought never to
have been allowed to leave the Ambassadeurs and the Cafe Jacquin;
nor to La Sorelli, who owes her success mainly to the coach-builders;
nor to little Jammes, who dances like a calf in a field.
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