Argosy, Vol. 1 (December 9, 1882) — page 201: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

194 THE ARGOSY. s€nding your photo. But I dare say the old codger, whoever he may be, 1s what the French call an eccentrique ; and, any way, whatever may be behind that odd advertisement, I mean to try for the position. I cannot afford to let an opportunity slip. I've lived too long on your charity as it is.” “ Tommyrot!” growled Dick Struthers. ‘‘ You’ve simply been my guest for a month, and a deuced lot of pleasure it has given me, too. I shall hate to have you leave!” _And the Englishman meant it sincerely. He had taken a great liking to the handsome, well bred young American, Henry Cottrell, on whom fortune had smiled brightly in youth, but had of late turned to him the cold shoulder. Struthers was the younger son of Lord Clandennett of Surrey, and could call himself the “ Honorable Richard ”’ if he chose, which he never did. Of a rather democratic nature, he found bachelor quarters in London more congenial than the ancestral hall. He was a barrister by profession, though as yet with little or no practice. Possessed of a large income, that fact did not worry him. Poor Cottrell had not found London an easy place in which to get a berth, handicapped as he was by the utter lack of business training. He had been fitted for the life of a gentleman of leisure, so his accomplishments were all of the superficial order. This position of a private secretary seemed exactly to fit in with his abili- ties. In his “ palmy days” he had traveled through France, and he pos- sessed a perfect knowledge of the country and its language. One evening, about a week after he had despatched his application for the position of private secretary, inclosing his portrait, he received a letter ' from France. On the back of the envelope, emblazoned in red and gold, was the crest of a noble family. Now Cottrell had already given up all hope of ever hearing from the unknown “ Jean Daron,” so imagine his surprise when he read the fcllowing, written in French, in a fine hand: To Mons. HENRY COTTRELL, Dear Sir: You are engaged for a month’s trial as my private secretary at a salary of five hundred francs per month. If you agree to these terms, write me (don’t telegraph ) at once stating when you can come, I will mail you immediately funds for traveling expenses. To reach tiny place take the channel steamer to Calais, thence by rail to Turonne, where a vehicle will be waiting to convey you to your destination. At the station do not so much as mention where, you are going. Ifany one should ask, say you are bound for Sorbette to sketch. This town is a favorite resort of tourists and lies on the road to Santilly. Wait until aman who answers to the name of Jean Daron addresses you. It ishe whom I will send to meet you. Kindly adhere strictly to the plan here set forth, and the reason for all this mystery shall be explained when we mieet. M. A. DE VILLIERS, Chateau de Frenoir, Santilly, France. The two friends sat up late that night discussing the stranfe missive, but even Struthers, with all his keenness for ferreting out a mystery, was quite at sea. GONG OOO ceo ee en ne