“You’ve read this, haven’t you?”
“No,” said he. “I tried to unstick it two or three times coming on the train, but it was too much for me.”
“Don’t you really know what it says?” she asked more earnestly.
“Yes, I do,” Clover answered, “but Denham must never know that I do.”
“I won’t tell him,” she said smiling faintly. “But surely he can’t be as badly off as this says. Has he really lost all his hair?”
“Not all—only in spots,” Clover reassured her; but then his recollections overcame him, and he added, with a grin: “But he’s a fearful looking specimen, all right, though.”
“About my brother,” she went on, turning the letter thoughtfully in her fingers; “when can he get out, do they think?”
“Any time next week.”
“I’ll write him,” she said. “I’ll write him and tell him that everything will be arranged for—for—for them both.”
Clover sprang to his feet.