away.

Now, in the vestibule below, a young man who had entered in haste
pushed rudely past us and made for the row of private letter-boxes
fixed opposite the coat-room. He paused at box No. 82 and gazed eagerly
into it. The front was of glass, and I could see readily that the box
was empty. The young man had his pass-key in his hand, but it was
clearly useless to insert it, and he finally turned away, his
countenance displaying the bitterest sense of disappointment. His
wildly roving eye encountered that of Esper Indiman. "Sir!" he began,
impetuously, then checked himself, bowed ceremoniously, and was gone.

IV

The Private Letter-Box

I had agreed to meet Esper Indiman at the Utinam and dine there. The
weather had turned cold again, for it was the end of our changeable
March, and the fireplace in the common room of the club was heaped high
with hickory logs, a cheerful sight, were it not for that odious motto,
"Non Possumus," graven over the mantel-shelf where it must inevitably
meet every eye. Never could I read it without a tightening at my
heartstrings; a potency of blighting evil seemed to lie in the very
words.

There were but two or three club members in the room, one of them the
young Mr. Sydenham, who had attracted my attention once or twice before
by the infinite wretchedness of his face. A mere boy, too, hardly
five-and-twenty at the most. He sat in a big chair, a magazine with its
leaves uncut lying in his lap. For an hour or more he had not stirred;
then he rang for a servant, directing him to inquire for any mail that
might have come in the afternoon delivery. Nothing for Mr. Sydenham was
the report, and again the young man relapsed into his melancholy
musing. An hour later, and just after Indiman had joined me, Mr.
Sydenham repeated his inquiry about his letters, receiving the same
negative answer--"Nothing for Mr. Sydenham." Evidently the
disappointment was not unexpected, but it was none the less a bitter
one. With a sigh which he hardly attempted to stifle, the young man
took up his uncut magazine and made a pretence at examining its
contents; I watched him with a lively but silent pity; any active
sympathy might have seemed obtrusive.

A servant stood at the young man's elbow holding a salver on which lay
a missive of some sort, a telegraphic message, to judge by the flimsy,
buff envelope.

"Telegram, sir," said the man, at length. "For Mr. Sydenham; yes, sir.
Will you sign for it?