A great deal of flopping and pounding seemed to be required as a preliminary to postal distribution. First the mail bags seemed to be dragged all over the floor, then came a long series of thumps while the letters were stamped, finally the slide was raised and a face the color of underdone pie crust, with little angry eyes, appeared. The owner had a new and ingenious insult for each person who presented himself. The Tweelers were utterly routed and went away not knowing whether there were any letters for them or not. Several valets and ladies’ maids exchanged lively but ineffectual compliments with the face in the post office window. Then came Sir Griffin. Rex looked on with interest. What the ill-natured brute behind the grating said, Rex couldn’t hear, but Sir Griffin burst out with a roar, “Damnation!” that made everybody jump. Then he stuck his head as far as he could get it in at the little window and shouted—in fluent German, awfully pronounced—“Here! You! It’s enough that you’re so stupid you don’t know what you’re about. Don’t you try to be impudent too! Hand me those letters!” The official bully handed them over without a word. Rex took advantage of the lull and stepped to the window. “Any letters for Mr Gethryn?” “How you spell him?” Rex spelled him. “Yet once again!” demanded the intelligent person. Rex wrote it in English and in German script. “From Trauerbach—yes?” “Yes.” The man went away, looked through two ledgers, sent for another, made out several sets of blanks, and finally came back to the window, but said nothing. “Well?” said Rex, pleasantly. “Well,” said the man. “Anything for me?” “Nothing for you.” “Kindly look again,” said Rex. “I know there are letters for me.” In about ten minutes the man appeared again. “Well?” said Gethryn. “Well,” said the man. “Nothing for me?” “Something.” And with ostentatious delay he produced three letters and a newspaper, which Rex took, restraining an impulse to knock him down. After all, the temptation was not very great, presenting itself more as an act of justice than as a personal satisfaction. The truth was, all day long a great gentleness tinged with melancholy had rested on Gethryn’s spirit. Nothing seemed to matter very much. And whatever engaged his attention for a moment, it was only for a moment, and then his thoughts returned where they had been all day. Yvonne, Yvonne! She had not been out of his thoughts since he rose that morning. In a few steps he reached his room and read his letters by the waning daylight. The first began: “My Darling—in three more days I shall stand before a Paris audience. I am not one bit nervous. I am perfectly happy. Yesterday at rehearsal the orchestra applauded and Madame Bordier kissed me. Some very droll things happened. Achilles was intoxicated and chased Ajax the Less with a stick. Ajax fled into my dressing room, and although I was not there I told Achilles afterward that I would never forgive him. Then he wept.”