He remembered the five hundred dollars of which he had been robbed, and
he also recalled vaguely the conversation he had with a woman inspector
in the store immediately after. Then came the message regarding his
son's condition, then the death chamber, the grave, and now--desolation.
The door opened softly and a servant entered. She bore a tray upon which
were laid a number of letters.
After she had gone Mr. Forbes rose and looked them over. He did so
listlessly. He had no heart for business.
The first three were business letters, referred to him by the firm with
a brief note, stating their importance as an apology for the intrusion.
The next two letters were letters of condolence from members of his
church. The last was a cheap envelope, neatly sealed and addressed
modestly.
This last he turned over and over between his fingers. There was a vague
thought in his brain to which he could give neither shape nor utterance.
Could it be possible? He asked the question and then sneered in answer.
The thing was incredible, that he, Duncan Forbes, tyrant and
slave-driver, should be remembered by his victims, yet the envelope was
redolent of sympathetic surprises.
He tore it open finally and glanced at the words. For just a moment the
flame of appreciation sprang up within him.
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