Nothing more was said. After a block or two Orde descended on his
way to a small hotel just off Broadway. The old gentleman saluted.
Orde nodded good-humouredly. In his private soul he was a little
amused at the old boy. To his view a man and clothes carried to
their last refinement were contradictory terms.

Orde ate, dressed, and set out afoot in search of Miss Bishop's
address. He arrived in front of the house a little past eight
o'clock, and, after a moment's hesitation, mounted the steps and
rang the bell.

The door swung silently back to frame an impassive man-servant
dressed in livery. To Orde's inquiry he stated that Miss Bishop had
gone out to the theatre. The young man left his name and a message
of regret. At this the footman, with an irony so subtle as to be
quite lost on Orde, demanded a card. Orde scribbled a line in his
note-book, tore it out, folded it, and left it. In it he stated his
regret, his short residence in the city, and desired an early
opportunity to call. Then he departed down the brownstone steps,
totally unconscious of the contempt he had inspired in the heart of
the liveried man behind him.

He retired early and arose early, as had become his habit. When he
descended to the office the night clerk, who had not yet been
relieved, handed him a note delivered the night before. Orde ripped
it open eagerly.


"MY DEAR MR. ORDE: