With an inward ejaculation of satisfaction at this good fortune,
he put his hand to his breast pocket.
"Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed. "There are those confounded letters I
promised to post. You go in, Mr. Snaffle, and I'll go back to the
letter box on the corner. You know the way, and you'll find the fellows
in the first card-room."
He opened the door as he spoke, and as Snaffle entered and closed it
after him, Fenton ran down the steps and walked to the next corner. He
had no letters to mail, but it was characteristic of his dramatic way
of doing things that he walked to the letter-box, raised the drop and
went through the motion of slipping in an envelope. He was accustomed
to say that when one played a part it could not be done too carefully,
and it amused him to reflect that if he were watched his action would
appear consistent with his words, while if he were timed he would be
found to have been gone from the club house exactly long enough. Not
that he supposed anybody was likely to take the trouble to do either of
these things, but Fenton was an imaginative man and he found a humorous
pleasure in finishing even his trickery in an artistic manner.
It was Saturday night, and just before midnight a servant opened the
card-room door. The room was full of smoke, empty glasses stood beside
the players, and piles of red and blue and white "chips" were heaped in
uneven distribution along the edges of the table.
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