from the pocket of his thin overcoat, an envelope and receipt book. "Sign here," he said, pointing.
Mr. Bramble signed and then studied the handwriting on the envelope, his lips pursed, one eye speculatively cocked.
"I've never seen the writing before. Must be a new one," he reflected aloud, and sighed. "Poor things!"
"That establishes the writer as a woman," said Trotter, removing his pipe. "Otherwise you would have said 'poor devils.' Now what do you mean by trifling with the women, you old rogue?" The loss of his position did not appear to have affected the nonchalant disposition of the good-looking Mr. Trotter.
"God bless my soul," said Mr. Bramble, staring hard at the envelope, "I don't believe it is from one of them, after all. By 'one of them,' my lad, I mean the poor gentlewomen who find themselves obliged to sell their books in order to obtain food and clothing. They always write before they call, you see. Saves 'em not only trouble but humiliation. The other kind simply burst in with a parcel of rubbish and ask how much I'll give for the lot. But this,— Well, well, I wonder who it can be from? Doesn't seem like the sort of writing—"
"Why don't you open it and see?" suggested his visitor.
"A good idea," said Mr. Bramble; "a very clever thought. There is a way to find out, isn't there?" His gaze fell upon the aged messenger, who warmed his bony hands at the stove. He paused, the tip of his forefinger inserted under the flap. "Sit down and
