"Yes, sir," replied Jason, who had been valet to Jimmie Dale's father
before him. "I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o'clock, when a
messenger came with a letter. Begging your pardon, sir, a young lady,
and--"

"Jason"--Jimmie Dale flung out the interruption, sudden, quick,
imperative--"what did she look like?"

"Why--why, I don't exactly know as I could describe her, sir," stammered
Jason, taken aback. "Very ladylike, sir, in her dress and appearance,
and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face."

"Hair and eyes--what color?" demanded Jimmie Dale crisply. "Nose, lips,
chin--what shape?"

"Why, sir," gasped Jason, staring at his master, "I--I don't rightly
know. I wouldn't call her fair or dark, something between. I didn't take
particular notice, and it wasn't overlight outside the door."

"It's too bad you weren't a younger man, Jason," commented Jimmie Dale,
with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice. "I'd have given a
year's income for your opportunity to-night, Jason."

"Yes, sir," said Jason helplessly.

"Well, go on," prompted Jimmie Dale. "You told her I wasn't home, and
she said she knew it, didn't she? And she left the letter that I was on
no account to miss receiving when I got back, though there was no need
of telephoning me to the club--when I returned would do, but it was
imperative that I should have it then--eh?"