"
Smiling blandly, the subject closed, it might have been forever,
Nicolovius reached out toward the table to flick the ash from his
cigarette. In so doing, as luck had it, he struck the book and knocked
it from his knees. Something shook from its pages as it dropped, and
fell almost at Queed's feet. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up.
It was a letter, at any rate an envelope, and it had fallen face up,
full in the light of the open window. The envelope bore an address, in
faded ink, but written in a bold legible hand. Not to save his soul
could Queed have avoided seeing it:
_Henry G. Surface, Esq.,
36 Washington Street._
There was a dead silence: a silence that from matter-of-fact suddenly
became unendurable.
Queed handed the envelope to Nicolovius. Nicolovius glanced at it, while
pretending not to, and his eyelash flickered; his face was about the
color of cigar ashes. Queed walked away, waiting.
He expected that the old man would immediately demand whether he had
seen that name and address, or at least would immediately say something.
But he did nothing of the sort.
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