That evening, just as he was going up to bed, Mr. Zanti came in and greeted
him with his accustomed cheerfulness.
"Going to bed, Peter? Ah, good boy."
Peter stopped, hesitating, by the door.
"Oh, I wonder--" he said and stopped.
"Yes?" said Mr. Zanti, looking at him.
"Oh--well--it's nothing--" Then he blurted out--"I saw a letter--I couldn't
help it--a letter from Stephen this afternoon. They came when Herr
Gottfried was out--and I wanted--I want dreadfully--to hear about him--if
you could tell me--"
For an instant Mr. Zanti's large eyes closed until they seemed to be no
larger than pin-points--then they opened again.
"Stephen--Stephen? Stephen what? What is it that the boy talks of?"
"You know--Stephen Brant--the man who first brought me to see you when I
was quite a kid. I was--I always have been very fond of him. I should be so
very glad--"
"Surely the boy is mad--what has come to you? Stephen Brant--yes I remember
the man--but I have heard nothing for years and years--no, nothing. See,
here are my afternoon's letters."
He took a bundle of letters out of his pocket and showed them to Peter. The
boy found the one in Stephen's handwriting.
"You may read it," said Mr. Zanti smiling. Peter read it. He could not
understand it and it was signed "John Simmons" ... but it was certainly in
Stephen's handwriting.
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