The hours of postal delivery found him waiting in an anguish of
suspense. At eight o'clock each morning he stood by his window,
listening for the postman's knock in the street. As it approached
he went out to the head of the stairs, and if the knock sounded
at the door of his house, he leaned over the banisters, trembling
in expectation. But the letter was never for him. When his
agitation had subsided he felt glad of the disappointment, and
laughed and sang.
One day Carter appeared at the City Road establishment, and made
an opportunity of speaking to his clerk in private.
'I suppose,' he said with a smile, 'they'll have to look out for
someone else at Croydon?'
'By no means! The thing is settled. I go at Christmas.'
'You really mean that?'
'Undoubtedly.'
Seeing that Reardon was not disposed even to allude to private
circumstances, the secretary said no more, and went away
convinced that misfortunes had turned the poor fellow's brain.
Wandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his
friend the realist.
'Would you like to meet Sykes?' asked Biffen.
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