CHAPTER XX.
A NEW ENEMY One evening in April, returning with a few brace of trout, they found the mail-bag awaiting them on the hall table; and Portlaw distributed the contents, proclaiming, as usual, his expectation of a letter from Malcourt.
There was none.

And, too peevish and disappointed to even open the heterogeneous mass of letters and newspapers, he slumped sulkily in his chair, feet on the fender, biting into his extinct cigar.
"That devilish Louis," he said, "has been away for several of the most accursedly lonely weeks I ever spent....

No reflection on you, Hamil--Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn't see you were busy--" Hamil had not even heard him.

He was busy--very busy with a letter--dozens of sheets of a single letter, closely written, smeared in places--the letter that had come at last! In the fading light he bent low over the pages.

Later a servant lighted the lamps; later still Portlaw went into the library, drew out a book bound in crushed levant, pushed an electric button, and sat down.