He was
clean-shaven, and scarcely a seam or wrinkle anywhere broke the
hard, smooth surface of his visage, its complexion clear and rosy as
that of a child.
Still regarding Ida, he tore open the envelope. At the sight of the
writing he, not exactly started, but moved his head rather suddenly,
and again turned his eyes upon the messenger.
"Sit down," he said, pointing to a chair. The room was an
uncomfortable office, with no fire. He himself took a seat
deliberately at a desk, whence he could watch Ida, and began to
read. As he did so, his face remained unmoved, but he looked away
occasionally, as if to reflect.
"What's your name?" he asked, when he had finished, beginning, at
the same time, to tear the letter into very small pieces, which he
threw into a waste-paper basket.
"Ida, sir,--Ida Starr."
"Starr, eh?" He looked at her very keenly, and, still looking, and
still tearing up the letter, went on in a hard, unmodulated voice.
"Well, Ida Starr, it seems your mother wants to put you in the way
of earning your living." The child looked up in fear and
astonishment. "You can carry a message? You'll say to your mother
that I'll undertake to do what I can for you, on one condition, and
that is that she puts you in my hands and never sees you again.
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