Dear Mr. Peter,
This is a hurried line to tell you that He is dead at last, died in drink cursing and swearing and now her mother and she, poor dear, are going to America and I'm going to look after her hoping that we'll be marrying in a few months' time and so realise my heart's wish.
Dear Peter I sail on Thursday from Southampton and would he coming to see you but would not like to inconvenience you as you now are, but my heart is ever the same to you. Dear Boy, and the day will come when we can talk over old times once again.
- Your affectionate friend, sir.
- Now about to he made the happiest man in all the world, Stephen.
- N.B. I hope the little kid is strong and happy.
- N.B. Zanti goes with us to America having heard of gold in California and is to he my best man when the day comes.
So Stephen's long wait was ended at last. Peter's eyes were dimmed as he put the letter away in his pocket. What a selfish beast, to be sure, must this same Peter Westcott, be, for here he was wishing—yes, almost wishing—that Stephen's happiness had not come to him. Always at the back of everything there had been the thought or Stephen Brant. Let all the pits in the world gape and yawn, there was one person in the world to whom Peter was precious. Now—in America—with a wife . . . some of the sunlight had gone out of the air and Peter's heart was suddenly cold with that old dread.
Another friend taken from him! Another link gone! Then he pulled himself together, tried to rejoice with Stephen at his happiness, failed dismally, walked down Piccadilly defiantly, with swinging shoulders and a frowning face, like a sailor in a hostile country, and went into the Bond Street jeweller's.
He had been there on several former occasions and a large stout man who looked as though he must have been Lord Mayor several years running came forward and gave Peter an audience. Precious stones were of no account in such a place as this, and the ruby pendant looked quite
