On the kitchen table the tray stood ready, glittering beneath the electric light; on the stove the electric kettle was singing, and by the tray were the newspapers. Jolly looked at them as if to make sure that no intruder had disarranged them, and then stepped towards the bedroom door. There was silence. His frown cleared a little. He stepped to the window and, after a moment, he looked radiant. From the house next door there came a rat-tat- tat, and then the postman appeared.
“I do hope,” murmured Jolly, who occasionally confided aloud in himself when he was alone, “that we have a cheerful post.”
He was doubtless thinking of the fact that on the previous night—or rather, in the early hours of that morning—Rollison had been in low spirits. The weather just now would be enough to depress a saint, and Jolly’s only hope of a brightening prospect was vested in the post. True, the chances were against such a fillip, but it was not surprising that a man who had worked for many years for the Hon. Richard Rollison believed in miracles.
The front door bell rang.
Jolly hurried to answer it, greeted the postman courteously, and was given a large bundle of letters and one packet which he did not examine. In fact he forewent his usual scrutiny of the post, for there came a summons from Rollison’s room.
“Jolly!”
“One moment, sir,” called Jolly.
He hurried into die kitchen, put the letters with the newspapers, wetted the tea, whisked the tray from the table and, in less than sixty seconds, opened the bedroom door.
“Good morning, sir.” He stepped towards the bedside table. “Your tea, sir. Your post. Your newspapers.”
“Ah,” said Rollison, his grey eyes kindling. He was lean and dark, with a thin dark moustache, and some people said that he was too good-looking and too conscious of his looks. “That helps. What do you think of the weather, Jolly?”
“Most unseasonal, sir, but it may clear before noon,” said Jolly, serenely, “I have often noticed, too, that when we have a wet September, October is usually a glorious month and November is almost spring-like. Would you like the fire switched on?”
“No,” said Rollison.
Jolly handed him the letters, including the package, and poured out tea. Rollison sat up in royal blue pyjamas decorated with silk lilies, his dark hair standing on end and his tanned face strikingly handsome. He switched on the lamp which was fitted to the wall above his head.
Your tea, sir,” said Jolly.
“Thanks.” Rollison took the cup, and picked up the letters one by one. “A bill, Jolly. A letter from Aunt Matilda. A letter from Alec Gregory—he probably wants me to go down on the farm for a few weeks.” He sipped his tea, continuing to turn the letters over. “Bill—receipt—bill—a letter from a man or woman who calls me Rawlison, posted in the East End—that might be interesting. Open it, Jolly.”
“Very good, sir.” Jolly used the paper-knife from the tray, and took out the letter as Rollison continued to murmur about the others. There were begging letters, appeals from charities, circulars, a selection of letters from relatives—in fact a surprising number. Rollison reached a bill which he thought was the last of the small letters, finished his tea, and looked up.
“Well. Jolly?”
“It is from Mrs. Link, sir, who hopes that you will go to supper to-night.” Jolly showed that he disapproved of the suggestion.
“Curious,” said Rollison. “She usually only invites me on great occasions. It isn’t my birthday, is it?”
“No, sir, that is in the Spring.”
“It looks as if the family is getting its happy returns in early,” said Rollison, “I haven’t known such a number of tender inquiries for a long time.”
He was holding out his cup for replenishment, and relinquished his hold too soon, so that only Jolly’s swift movement averted a minor disaster. “Jolly!”
Yes, sir,” said Jolly.
“Look at that!”
He was staring at the large envelope, and Jolly looked down, seeing the address for the first time. There was nothing really remarkable about it as far as Rollison was concerned, except that it had come through the post and been safely delivered.
“How very remarkable, sir,” said Jolly.
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Rollison, and peered at the postmark. “
“It is really most gratifying,” murmured Jolly.
The typewritten address was:
The Toff,
London, W.l.
Many letters had been addressed to “The Toff, Gresham Terrace”, but never one as briefly as this. Rollison considered it curiously as Jolly handed him the paper-knife.
The envelope was a stout one, tightly packed. The contents would not come out when the top was slit, and so he slit one side and took out two pieces of thin cardboard, fastened together with gummed tape—the cardboard was almost the same size as the envelope. He cut the tape and took the pieces apart. There, face downwards, was what appeared to be a cabinet-size photograph.
