. . . And, said I, 'Then there's been
a real victory. Never would you see him back, unless. And I was
right, sir!' he concluded triumphantly.
"Let me see that piece of paper."
"You'll let me have it back, sir?--for a memento," the post-boy
pleaded. Lieutenant Lapenotiere took it from him--a plain half-sheet
of note-paper roughly folded. On it was scribbled in pencil,
back-hand wise, "Lt. Lapenotiere. Admiralty, Whitehall. At 6.30
a.m., not later. For Merton, Surrey."
He folded the paper very slowly, and handed it back to the post-boy.
"Very well, then. For Merton."
The house lay but a very little distance beyond Wimbledon.
Its blinds were drawn as Lieutenant Lapenotiere alighted from the
chaise and went up to the modest porch.
His hand was on the bell-pull. But some pressure checked him as he
was on the point of ringing. He determined to wait for a while and
turned away towards the garden.
The dawn had just broken; two or three birds were singing. It did
not surprise--at any rate, it did not frighten--Lieutenant
Lapenotiere at all, when, turning into a short pleached alley, he
looked along it and saw _him_ advancing.
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