The first was from Cyril. He tore it open
in haste, and skimmed it through rapidly. Montague Nevitt meanwhile
sat languid in his chair, striking a pensive note now and again
on his violin, with his eyes half closed and his lips parted. Guy
drew a sigh of relief as he skimmed his note.
"Just what I expected," he said slowly. "Cyril couldn't have
been there. He writes last night--the letter's marked 'Delayed in
transmission'; no doubt by the accident--'I shall come up to town
on Friday or Saturday morning to see the dentist. One of my teeth
is troublesome; I suppose you've had the same; the second on the
left from the one we've lost; been aching a fortnight. I want it
stopped. But to-morrow I really CAN'T leave work. I've got well
into the swing of such a lovely bit of fern, with Sardanapalus
just gleaming like gold in the foreground.' So that settles matters
somewhat. He can't have been there. Though, I think, even so, I'll
just telegraph for safety's sake and make things certain."
Nevitt struck a chord twice with a sweep of his hand, listened to
it dreamily for a minute with far-away eyes, and then remarked once
more, without even looking up, "The same tooth lost, he says? You
both had it drawn! And now another one aches in both of you alike!
How very remarkable! How very, very curious!"
"Well, that WAS queer," Guy replied, relaxing into a smile, "queer
even for us; I won't deny it; for it happened this way.
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