Nor was it because the club lacked servants that Mr. Marrophat presently got up, folded his cable message, waddled forth, and proceeded to commit it to the nearest office with his own trustworthy fat hands.
As for Alan Law, he wandered down Pall Mall in a state of daze; he went toward Trafalgar Square. He didn't know where he was going, or even that he was on his way, and he didn't care. For all that, no one who chanced to observe him would have dreamed that he was preoccupied with questioning his own mental integrity; but the hypothetical observer would have shared his misgiving had he suspected that Mr. Law was wearing a rose inside his top hat, to say nothing of a three spot of hearts in the breast pocket of his admirable morning coat.
He could, of course, read quite well the message of the rose. He would not soon forget that year-old parting with his Rose of the Riviera:
"You say you love me but may not marry me—and we must never see each other again. Then promise this, that if ever you change your mind, you'll send for me."
And her promise: "I will send you a rose."
But a year had lapsed with never a sign from her, so that he had grown accustomed to the unflattering belief that she had forgotten him.
And now the sign had come—but in a fashion so
