“Mr. Carter.”
“Yes,” said I, turning.
“Do you know where the little wretch has gone?”
“Oh, yes,” said I.
“I—I suppose you don’t ever write to him?”
“Dear me, no,” said I.
“But you—could?” suggested Mrs. Hilary.
“Of course,” said I.
She jumped up and ran towards me. Her purse was in one hand, and a bit of paper fluttered in the other.
“Send him that—don’t tell him,” she whispered, and her voice had a little catch in it. “Poor little wretch!” said she.