Courtney read two of his letters. The third he consigned, unopened,
to the fireplace at Dowd's Tavern. The little package, minus the
wrapping paper, was locked away in his trunk.
Charlie Webster, emerging from his office at the dinner hour,--twelve
noon,--espied Miss Angie Miller hurrying toward the Tavern. He hailed
her,--not ceremoniously or even gallantly,--but in the manner of
Windomville.
"Hey!" he called, and Angie promptly responded, not with the dignity
for which she was famous but with an entirely human spontaneity:
"Hey yourself!"
She waited till he caught up with her.
"Have you had an answer to that letter, Angie?" he inquired, glancing
at a small bunch of letters she held in her hand.
"No, I haven't." she replied, somewhat guardedly. "I can't understand
why he hasn't answered, Charlie,--unless he's away or something."
"Must be that," said he, frowning slightly. "You wrote nearly two
weeks ago, didn't you?"
"Two weeks ago yesterday."
"Sure you had the right address?"
"Absolutely. Thirty-three Cedar Street. He's had an office there for
ever so long. I ought to know where my uncle's office is, oughtn't
I?"
"I thought maybe you might have got the wrong tree," explained
Charlie.
"It's Cedar," said Miss Angie flatly.
"Cedar and pine are a good deal alike, except in--" began Charlie,
doubtfully,
"Goodness!" cried Miss Angie, stopping short.
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