Owen regarded him without resentment. Since returning to London he had
taken the trouble of looking up his name in _Who's Who_ and had
found that he was not so undistinguished as he had supposed. He was, it
appeared, a Regius Professor and the author of some half-dozen works on
sociology--a record, Owen felt, that almost justified loaf-slinging and
earhole clipping in moments of irritation.
The manager started to speak, but the man of letters anticipated him.
'Is this the fool?' he roared. 'Young man, I have no wish to be hard on
a congenital idiot who is not responsible for his actions, but I must
insist on an explanation. I understand that you are in charge of the
correspondence in this office. Well, during the last week you have
three times sent unstamped letters to my fiancee, Miss Vera Delane,
Woodlands, Southbourne, Hants. What's the matter with you? Do you think
she likes paying twopence a time, or what is it?'
Owen's mind leaped back at the words. They recalled something to him.
Then he remembered.
He was conscious of a not unpleasant thrill. He had not known that he
was superstitious, but for some reason he had not been able to get
those absurd words of Mr Dorman's mother out of his mind. And here was
another prediction of hers, equally improbable, fulfilled to the
letter.
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