Mr. Compton smiled.
“Well, Brandon,” said he, “if it is so it will show that you are right. You anticipated a rise about this time, you know. You certainly have a remarkable forecast about the chances of business.”
“I don’t think there is much forecast,” said Brandon, with a smile. “It was only the most ordinary calculation made from the well-known fact that the exportation this year had been slight. But there comes Hedley now,” he continued, moving his head a little to one side so as to look up the street. “The letters will soon show us all.”
Mr. Compton looked out in the direction which Brandon indicated and saw the clerk approaching. He then settled himself back in his chair, put his hands in his pockets, threw one leg over the other, and began whistling a tune with the air of a man who was so entirely prosperous and contented that no news whether good or evil could greatly affect his fortunes.
In a short time the clerk entered the inner office and, laying the letters down upon the table nearest Mr. Compton, he withdrew.
Mr. Compton took up the letters one by one and read the addresses, while Brandon looked carelessly on. There were ten or twelve of them, all of which, except one, were addressed to the firm. This one Mr. Compton selected from among the others, and reaching it out in his hand said:
“This is for you, Mr. Brandon.”
“For me?” repeated Brandon, with marked surprise; and taking the letter he looked at the address with eager curiosity.
The address was simply as follows:
Louis Brandon, Sydney, New South Wales.
The letters were irregular and loosely formed, as though written by a tremulous hand—such letters as old men form when the muscles have become relaxed.
Mr. Compton went on opening the letters of the firm without taking any further notice of his partner. The latter sat for some time looking at the letter without venturing to open it. He held it in both hands, and looked fixedly at that address as though from the address itself he was trying to extort some meaning.
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