The summer passed, and even Captain Oliphant began to grow reconciled to
his surroundings. That is to say, he discovered that at present it was
his policy to make himself agreeable, even to his co-trustee.
Armstrong, with the position he held at Maxfield as Roger's friend and
Mrs Ingleton's trusted servant, was not to be disposed of quite as
easily as the gallant officer had at first anticipated. At the same
time, while he remained where he was, the Captain felt himself decidedly
embarrassed in the working out of sundry little projects which floated
in his ingenious brain. Besides which, time was getting on. Roger
would be twenty in November, and a year later--
Captain Oliphant had reached this pleasant stage in his meditations one
morning, as he sipped his coffee in his own room, when Raffles entered
with the letters.
"Eightpence to pay on this one, please, sir."
It was a letter with an Indian post-mark, unstamped.
The Captain regarded it with knitted brows; then tossing it on the
table, said--
"Give it back. I won't take it in, Raffles." Raffles, reflecting
within himself that the Captain must have a vast amount of
correspondence if he could afford to chuck away an interesting document
like this, took the letter and retired.
"Wait a minute," called the Captain, as the door was closing. "Let me
look at it again."
Raffles guessed as much, and brought the missive back triumphantly. The
Captain again regarded it with expressions of anything but cordiality,
and seemed half inclined to reject it once more. But he took it up
again and posed it in his hand.
"You can leave it, Raffles," said he presently; "give the postman the
eightpence."
It was some time before Captain Oliphant opened the letter. He sipped
his coffee and glared at it viciously, as it lay on the table beside
him.
"What game is the scoundrel up to now?" muttered he. "I began to hope I
was rid of him. What does he want now?"