CHAPTER VI
THE HOUSE IN GRAFTON STREET
One afternoon, some days later, I was sitting in my flat in South Molton Street, smoking a pipe and carelessly skimming an evening paper, when my man brought me some letters which had just arrived.
Several I tossed aside unopened—I recognized the handwritings and was in no haste to absorb the contents of epistles from acquaintances whose company, at the best of times, “bored me stiff,” as some Americans say. But the letter was there that I had expected in the morning, and at once I tore it open.
Dulcie wrote chiefly about herself—which was all I wanted to hear—about her father and “Aunt Hannah,” while two pages she devoted to her little brother d**k, of whom she was inordinately fond.
Dick, she said, had shown the utmost pluck and endurance throu
