"I am the master of that house. Now will you speak?"
"Yes," faltered the man, "I'll tell you. It's a telegram that I was carrying to the lady; nothing wrong in that I hope."
"No harm, certainly; give the telegram to me. I will deliver it."
The man gave up the telegram. The envelope which contained it was sealed, but Mellen tore it open without a moment's hesitation. Even as he unfolded the paper, his hand faltered—in the very height of his rage he could not think of the woe its contents might bring, without a sharp pang.
He read it slowly, standing there motionless, unable, at first, to take in the full extent of his crushing anguish. "Have no fear. I will be at the old spot, prompt to help you. All shall be prepared."
This was the telegram. There was no signature—it needed none. Mellen knew only too well who the writer was, knew it as thoroughly as he did the woman for whom it was intended.
For a full half hour Grantley Mellen was a madman. The fever and the insanity passed at length; he lay upon the ground, staring up at the cold sky, the telegram still clutched in one hand, the other dug deeply into the earth, in a wild conflict of passion that shook him to the soul. He raised himself and looked about; it seemed as if he had been suffering in a fearful dream—he glanced down at the paper—that brought conviction back.
He sat there for a long time revolving vague plans in his mind, and deciding upon the course he would pursue.
"Meet craft with craft," he muttered; "their own evil weapons."
He rose from the ground, arranged his dress, and walked towards the house.