"Is there an answer?"
"No, I reckon."
She was turning, when the man suddenly laid a finger on her arm.
"Axin' pardon, but you'll let 'un down aisy, won't 'ee? He don't bear no malice, tho' he've a-suffered a brave bit. Cure 'un, that's what I say—cure 'un: this bein', o' cou'se, atween you an' me. An' look 'ee here," he continued, with a slow nod; "s'posin' the party lets on as he's a-falled in love wi' another party, I reckon you won't be the party to hinder et. Mind, I bain't sayin' you cou'd, but you won't try, will 'ee? That's atween you an' me, o' cou'se."
The man winked solemnly, and turned down the path. Before she recovered of her astonishment he had paused again at the gate, and was looking back.
"That's understood," he nodded; "atween you an' me an' the gate-post, o' cou'se."
With that he had disappeared.
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, if bewildered at this, was yet more astonished at the contents of the letter.
"Fogo?" she repeated, with a glance at the signature—"Fogo? Won't that be the name of the woman-hater up at Kit's House, me dear?"
"Certainly," answered the Honourable Frederic.