The letter was directed to the Edmeston Agency:
Grätz and Bush must leave at once if they wish to enjoy the fishing here. The _pike_ are biting. _Four have been caught. The shooting, also, is excellent. Eight birds were killed yesterday._ If Grätz and Bush do not leave within a week business in London is likely to detain them indefinitely and they will miss their holiday with little chance for another.
Tell them to take the urgent advice of a sportsman and clear out while they have the chance. Yours with good intentions, D. BROWN SATCHELL.
While Guild was busy writing and consigning what he had written to separate envelopes, he was aware of considerable movement and noise outside on deck--the passing to and fro of many people, whistle blasts from other craft--in fact, all the various species of bustle and noise which, aboard any steamer, indicate its approach to port.
He raised his head and tried to see, but it was still raining and the air was dull with fog.
Passengers, stewards, and officers came and went, passing through the writing-room where he sat in a corner sorting and sealing his letters. Twice, glancing up over his shoulder, he noticed a steward cleaning up, dusting and arranging the pens, ink, and writing paper on the several tables near by--one of those too busy and officious functionaries whose zeal for tips usually defeats its own ends.
And so it happened this time, for, as Guild, intent on what he was writing, reached out absently for another envelope, a package of them was thrust into his hand with a bustling, obsequious--"Paper, sir! Yes, sir"--Beg pardon, sir! I'm sorry!"--For somehow the inkwell had been upset and the pile of letters scattered over the floor.
"Damn it!" said Guild savagely, springing back to avoid the streaming ink.
The steward appeared to be overwhelmed; down he flopped on his knees to collect the letters, hopping up at intervals to sop the flowing flood of ink from the desk.
Guild took the letters from him grimly, counted the sealed envelopes, then without a word went to the neighbouring desk, and, sitting down there, wrote on the last sealed envelope not yet addressed--the envelope which contained the cipher code, translation, and the information concerning the Edmeston Company. When he had written on it: "To be delivered to the British Consul in a week," he gathered all the letters, placed them in his breast pocket, buttoned his coat, and went out. For half an hour he walked to and fro under the shelter of the roofed deck, glancing absently across the rail where there was nothing to see except grey mist, grey water, and rain.