The shopman dug a compliment out of the remark.
"Our house has a reputation to maintain," he answered, "and Mr.
Fenshawe is one of our best and oldest customers."
There was no mention of Count von Kerber, which added a ripple to the
wave of astonishment in Royson's breast. He took his baggage to Charing
Cross in a cab, and deposited it there. Meanwhile, he learned from a
further scrutiny of the list that his own few belongings were hardly
wanted. He had not been so well equipped since he left Heidelberg to
rush to his mother's death-bed. Nevertheless, having already gathered
in a valise some books, photographs, letters, and other odds and ends,
he went to Brixton to obtain them.
While giving a farewell glance around his dingy room, an old envelope,
thrown aside overnight, reminded him of a half-formed idea, which
appealed to him strongly now that he knew his port of departure.
So he wrote a short letter:
Dear Mr. Forbes:
"You were kind to me four years ago, as kind as Sir Henry Royson would
permit you to be towards one who had wilfully and irreparably insulted
him.
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