He read it again as the boy putt-putted off into the darkness.
"We leave for Montreal to-night. Cheers. Can I have one on you? Address General Delivery, Montreal. K. Doyle."
He struck a match and held it to the corner of the yellow sheet. By the time it was burned and the charred fragments crunched beneath his heel, Miss Ocky had garaged the car and come around to the front steps.
"Hello," she said, rather wearily. "Never dreamed you'd be back already!"
"Couldn't stay away," he said lightly. "Have a nice time at the Bolts?"
"Rotten," answered Miss Ocky tersely. "My own fault—I've been low in my mind all day." She pulled off her driving gloves and waved with them toward the veranda. "Come and give me a cigarette."
"What has been worrying you?" he asked her quietly when they were settled in the cozy corner. "Anything serious?"
"Janet has gone. I shall miss her—terribly—after all these years. She insisted, though, and I had no right to refuse her."
"But she will miss you, too, surely."
"Possibly."