He had made up his mind.
Then began a search through his desk in and out of the pigeon-holes, under a heap of letters--most of them unanswered; beneath a package tied with tape, until his eyes fell upon an envelope sealed with wax, in which was embedded the crest of the ancestors of the young gentleman whose future had so absorbed his thoughts.

It was Mrs.Breen's acceptance of Miss Felicia's invitation to Miss MacFarlane's tea.
"Ah, here it is! Now I'll find the number--yes, 864--I thought it was a "4"-- but I didn't want to make any mistake." This done, and the note with the number and street of Jack's uncle's house spread out before him, Peter squared his elbows, took a sheet of paper from a drawer, covered it with half a dozen lines beginning "My dear Breen--" enclosed it in an envelope and addressed it to "Mr.John Breen, care of Arthur Breen, Esq.," etc.

This complete, he affixed the stamp in the upper left-hand corner, and with the letter fast in his hand disappeared in his bedroom, from which he emerged ten minutes later in full walking costume, even to his buckskin gloves and shiny high hat, not to mention a brand-new silk scarf held in place by his diamond tear-drop, the two in high relief above the lapels of his tightly buttoned surtout.
"No, Mrs.McGuffey," he said with a cheery smile as he passed out of the door (she had caught sight of the letter and had stretched out her hand)--"No--I am going for a walk, and I'll mail it myself.".