Marian Brooke pressed both hands over her face, then crept out of bed, and slowly dressed; after which she found a pencil and some paper, and sat down to write.
The making of her letter seemed to be no easy task. Once, twice, thrice, she tore up a half-finished sheet into tiny fragments, and began anew. But at length it was finished and folded. Outside she wrote simply, “For Mr. George Rutherford.”
Then she went about the little room, putting her things together, packing the greater part into a large carpet-bag, and making a roll of the rest within her waterproof cloak.
This work completed, she threw herself down once more on the bed, and lay there for half an hour or more, perhaps only half-conscious. Mrs. Flint found her thus, and brought a cup of tea. Mrs. Brooke sat up to drink it, and said briefly—
“I have to go away to-day.”
Some slight sound of astonishment escaped Mrs. Flint.
“Yes; I am afraid it takes you by surprise. Something I heard—something that happened yesterday,” Mrs. Brooke said, her eyes roving unsteadily and avoiding the other’s face. “I have had to come to a sudden decision. Please have a boy here in less than an hour, to carry my bag. I must catch an early train. And let me know all that is owing. I told you when I came that I might have to leave at short notice, and you agreed. But I will pay what you think right. If Mr. Rutherford should come again—”
“Mr.—” Mrs. Flint hesitated.
“Mr. Rutherford—the gentleman who called yesterday about a lost child.” Mrs. Brooke’s face contracted for a moment, almost convulsively. “If he comes again, give him the letter on the table, it will explain all that he wants to know; and I should have nothing more to say. That is all. Please leave me now; and get a boy soon.”
Mrs. Brooke lay back on the bed once more, and shut her eyes. Mrs. Flint withdrew obediently, making no protest.