The Argosy — page 276: what you’re looking at

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

. - 2357 A LADY’S PRIVILEGE. y ERY strange,” soliloquised Jack Trevor one dull October morn- ing, some half-a-dozen years ago, while dividing his attention between his breakfast and the second perusal of a letter which had arrived by the early post. ‘The most extraordinary thing I ever heard of : a woman, who is never decently civil to a fellow in town, and now thaws in this inexplicable way. What on earth can have made her think of me?” The missive which so perplexingly exercised the comprehensive faculties of the young barrister, addressed to ‘‘ John Trevor, Esq., New Inn, London, W.C.,” ran as follows :— * Belford Hall, Rokesley, Leicestershire, Oct. 3, 188—. “ DEAR Mr. TREVOR,—We are expecting a few friends at the end of next week, and shall be delighted if you will join our party. My husband desires me to add, by way of extra inducement, that pheasants are unusually plentiful this season. Any day after Wednes- day will suit us perfectly. ‘Sincerely yours, ‘ DoRA PEMBERTON.” “Next week,” reflected Trevor, lighting his meerschaum, “ let me see. Not much work likely to come in for a month at least, if it does then, and the pheasants are a temptation. Yes, I'll go.” So he at once accepted the invitation, announcing his intended arrival on Thursday in the ensuing week by an afternoon train. ‘‘ Nothing like being precise in these matters,” he said; “it leaves her no excuse for not sending a trap to meet me.” | When Trevor reached St. Pancras on the appointed day, he was greeted on the platform by a cheery ‘‘ Hollo, Jack !” ‘“* Hollo, Long Odds!” he replied, evidently pleased at the rencontre. “Where are you off to?” inquired the gentleman designated as * Long Odds,” a sobriquet bestowed on him by his intimates in allu- sion to his deplorable habit of investing his slender finances on race- horses possessing no earthly chance of winning; but whose real name was the Honourable Walter Noland, third son of Lord Lowater. ‘““Pemberton’s,” briefly responded Trevor, as, following his com- panion, he took his seat in a first-class “smoking,” which, as generally happens on the Midland line, they had all to themselves. ‘““Guessed as much when I saw your gun-case,” remarked the Honourable Walter; ‘‘so am I. Cross-country journey, four miles from Rokesley station, and a slow train from Leicester. Not bad, though, | when you get there—first-rate shooting and undeniable Larose. ‘What puzzles me,” said Trevor, between two puffs of his cigar, COREL OO© SS) (S©) mM