When the note was ready I said to Joyce that I'd just had news of Robert Lorillard from a great friend of mine who was much interested in his welfare. This news necessitated my writing Robert, and as I was still in bed I must request her to send the letter by hand.
"Go out to the nearest post office yourself, and have a messenger take it," I directed.
While she was gone I got up, bathed, and put on street dress for the first time since I'd been "playing 'possum."
I felt much better, I explained when Joyce came back, and added that, later in the day, I might even be inclined "for a walk or something."
"If you're so well as that, you'll be ready to let me go to India soon, won't you, dear?" she hinted. No doubt my few words about Robert, and the sight of his name on a letter, had made the poor girl desperate under her calm, controlled manner.
I was desperate, too, knowing that her whole future depended on the success of Jim's plan. If it failed, I should have to let her go, and all would be over!
"You must do what's best for you," I answered. "But don't talk about it now. Wait till to-morrow."
Joyce was dumb.
Hours passed, and no reply from Robert. I began to fear he'd gone away—or that he was hideously offended. We'd got through a pretence of luncheon, when at last a messenger came. Thank heaven, Robert's handwriting was on the envelope!
He wrote: