“For a moment I thought it might be Hampton,” I said.
“Hampton,” he repeated. “Hampton. How could you make Hampton?” He
turned the envelope about. “H.A.M.—why, Willie, you’re a worse hand at
the job than me!”
He replaced the letter in the envelope and stood erect to put this back
in his breast pocket.
I did not mean to take any risks in this affair. I drew a stump of
pencil from my waistcoat pocket, turned a little away from him and
wrote “Shaphambury” very quickly on my frayed and rather grimy shirt
cuff.
“Well,” said I, with an air of having done nothing remarkable.
I turned to him with some unimportant observation—I have forgotten
what.