One morning late in September, when Armytages coffee was brought to his room at the Grand Hotel, the waiter directed his attention to an official-looking note lying upon the tray. He had just risen, and was standing at the window gazing out upon the distant islands indistinct in the morning haze, and thinking of the words of assurance and affection his well-beloved had uttered before he had parted from her at the door, after the theatre on the previous night. Impatiently he tore open the note, and carelessly glanced at its contents. Then, with an expression of surprise, he carefully re-read the letter, saying aloud
Strange! I wonder what he wants?
The note was a formal one, bearing on a blue cameo official stamp the superscription, British Consulate, Leghorn, and ran as follows:
Dear Sir,
I shall be glad if you can make it convenient to call at the Consulate this morning between eleven and one, as I desire to speak to you upon an important and most pressing matter.
Yours faithfully,
John Hutchinson, His Majestys Consul.
Hutchinson, he repeated to himself. Is the Consul here called Hutchinson? It must be the Jack Hutchinson of whom Tristram spoke. He called him jovial Jack Hutchinson. I wonder whats the pressing matter? Some infernal worry, I suppose. Perhaps some dun or other in town has written to him for my address.