s dress would break the green of the foreground. How eagerly he
would jump from the gate! How lovingly he would....

The elegant figure of Webster interrupted his reverie. Sam had never
seen Webster before, and it was with no pleasure that he saw him now. He
had come to regard this lane as his own private property, and he
resented trespassers. He tucked his legs under him, and scowled at
Webster under the brim of his hat.

The valet advanced towards him with the air of an affable executioner
stepping daintily to the block.

"Mr. Marlowe, sir?" he inquired politely.

Sam was startled. He could making nothing of this.

"Eh? What?"

"Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. S. Marlowe?"

"Yes, that's my name."

"Mine is Webster, sir. I am Mr. Bennett's personal gentleman's
gentleman. Miss Bennett entrusted me with this note to deliver to you,
sir."

Sam began to grasp the position. For some reason or other, the dear girl
had been prevented from coming this afternoon, and she had written to
explain and relieve his anxiety. It was like her. It was just the sweet,
thoughtful thing he would have expected her to do. His contentment with
the existing scheme of things returned. The sun shone out again, and he
found himself amiably disposed towards the messenger.

"Fine day," he said, as he took the note.

"Extremely, sir," said Webster, outwardly unemotional, inwardly full of
a grave pity.

It was plain to him that there had been no previous little rift to
prepare the young man for the cervical operation which awaited him, and
he edged a little nearer, in order to be handy to catch Sam if the shock
knocked him off the gate.

As it happened, it did not. Having read the opening words of the note,
Sam rocked violently; but his feet were twined about the lower bars and
this saved him from overbalancing. Webster stepped back, relieved.

The note fluttered to the ground. Webster, picking it up and handing it
back, was enabled to get a glimpse of the first two sentences. They
confirmed his suspicions. The note was hot stuff. Assuming that it
continued as it began, it was about the warmest thing of its kind that
pen had ever written. Webster had received one or two heated epistles
from the sex in his time--your man of gallantry can hardly hope to
escape these unpleasantnesses--but none had got off the mark quite so
swiftly, and with quite so much frigid violence as this.

"Thanks," said Sam mechanically.

"Not at all, s