“But what a waste of time and energy!” Again she braced herself, determined to exercise an authority too long relaxed.
“I think, dear, that I ought to know who is your correspondent.”
“Why, Mum,” and Cara came to a standstill, “this is something quite new! You’ve never asked such a thing before.”
“But I believe I should have done so, Cara. Better late than never. I’m afraid, dear child, that I have been hitherto too slack, too busy with my work, to take a proper interest in your affairs.”
“This is too funny!” cried Cara angrily; “that old Hesketh spy, has put you up to this.”
“No—and that is no way to speak of her,” reproved Letty with surprising spirit; “and now I must insist on knowing who it is, that you have been writing to to-day?”
“Oh, then, since you insist,” said Cara, putting her hand in the pocket of her coat, “here is my correspondence,” and she exhibited a letter addressed to, ‘Peter Robinson, Regent Street, London, W.’
“A man certainly, but a stranger to me.”
(There was another letter remaining in her pocket, and this was inscribed to, ‘Hugo Blagdon, Esq., Sharsley Court, Yorks.’)
Letty, as she received Peter Robinson’s letter, felt a little abashed. Could all the other suspicions have the same ending? Oh, could they?—if so what a heavy load would be lifted from her mind!