Part 13 (2/2)
You won't believe it when I tell you, because you didn't see it. That is, you won't unless _you_ have inserted _the_ Advertis.e.m.e.nt of the Ages--the Unique, the Siren, the Best yet Cheapest--in six leading London journals at once.
There were eight bundles wrapped in newspaper. Enormous bundles! Jones had two under each arm, and was carrying two in each hand, by loops of string. As he tottered into the drawing room, the biggest bundle dropped. The string broke. The wrapping yawned. Its contents gushed out.
Not only telegrams, but letters with no stamps or post-marks! They must have been rushed frantically round to the six offices by messengers.
It was true, then, what the newspapers said: all London, all England, yearned, pined, prayed for houses. Yet people must already be living _somewhere_!
Literally, there were thousands of answers. To be precise, Captain Burns, Jones, and I counted two thousand and ten replies which had reached the six offices by noon on the first day of the advertis.e.m.e.nt: one thousand and eight telegrams; the rest, letters dispatched by hand.
Each sender earnestly hoped that his application might be the first!
Heaven knew how many more might be _en route_! What a tribute to the Largest Circulations!
Jones explained his delay by saying that ”the stuff was coming in thick as flies”; so he had waited until a lull fell upon each great office in turn. When the count had been made by us, and envelopes neatly piled in stacks of twenty-four on a large desk hastily cleared for action, Terry sent his servant away. And then began the fun!
Yes, it was fun: ”fun for the boys,” if ”death to the frogs.” But we hadn't gone far when between laughs we felt the p.r.i.c.ks of conscience.
Alas for all these people who burned to possess our moated grange ”practically free,” at its absurdly low rent! And the moated grange didn't exist. Not one of the unfortunate wretches would so much as get an answer to his S. O. S.
They were not all _Nouveaux Riches_ by any means, these eager senders of letters and telegrams. Fearing repulse from the fastidious moat-owner, they described themselves attractively, even by wire, at so much the word. They were young; they were of good family; they were lately married or going to be married. Their husbands or fathers were V. C.'s.
There was every reason why they, and they alone, should have the house.
They begged that particulars might be telegraphed. They enclosed stamps on addressed envelopes. As the moated grange was ”rich in old oak,” so did we now become rich in new stamps! Some people were willing to take the house on its description without waiting to see it. Others a.s.sured the advertiser that money was no object to them; he might ask what rent he liked; and these were the ones on whom we wasted no pity. If this was what the first three hours brought forth, how would the tide swell by the end of the day--the end of the _week_? Tarpeia buried under the s.h.i.+elds and bracelets wasn't _in_ it with us!
Terry and I divided the budget, planning to exchange when all had been read. But we couldn't keep silent. Every second minute one or other of us exploded: ”You _must_ hear this!” ”Just listen to _one_ more!”
About halfway through my pile, I picked up a remarkably alluring envelope. It was a peculiar pale shade of purple, the paper being of rich satin quality suggesting pre-war. The address of the newspaper office was in purple ink, and the handwriting was impressive. But what struck me most was a gold crown on the back of the envelope, above a purple seal; a crown signifying the same rank as my own.
I glanced up to see if Terry were noticing. If he had been, I should have pa.s.sed the letter to him as a _bonne bouche_, for this really was _his_ show, and I wanted him to have all the plums. But he was grinning over somebody's photograph, so I broke the seal without disturbing him.
I couldn't keep up this reserve for long, however; I hadn't read far when I burst out with a ”By Jove!”
”What is it?” asked Terry.
”We've hooked quite a big fish,” said I. ”Listen to this: 'The Princess Avalesco presents her compliments to T. B., and hopes that he will----'
but, my goodness _gracious_, Captain Burns! What's the matter?”
The man had gone pale as skim-milk, and was staring at me as though I'd turned into a Gorgon.
CHAPTER IV
THE TANGLED WEB
”Read the name again, please,” Terry said, controlling his voice.
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