[In a low voice.] Oh, yes. [Sitting, her hands tightly gripped together.] Oh, yes.
John.
[Going to her and handing her the letter.] Read it, please, Olive.
Olive.
[After a pause, holding the letter between her finger and thumb, reading.] “Station Hotel, Epsom. My dear old Jack”—— [Hastily returning the letter to John, with a shudder.] Take it from me!
John.
[Reading aloud.] “My dear old Jack”—[looking round, simply]—we have known each other many years—[reading]—“oh! I have had such a job to find you. I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage and get a messenger to bring this to you. The messenger will show you where I am, if you will only consent to see me for a few moments on—[looking round]—on a matter of business.”
[Mrs. Cloys, concealed from the others by Sir Fletcher, sinks on to the settee.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Ha, a matter of business! Of course, a matter of business.