The boy swung himself from his pony, and handed over the leathern bag to his master.
“Great Scott, here’s a nuisance!” exclaimed the latter, fumbling in his pockets. “I believe I haven’t got the key. It’s up at the house. We’ll have to send September for it—or go up ourselves and open the bag there.”
The last thing that Blachland desired was either of these courses. If they sent up for the key, Lyn would be sure to come down with it herself. If they went themselves, the bag would be opened in her presence, and this, for good reasons of his own, he did not wish. In fact he had deftly manoeuvred Bayfield down here with the object of intercepting it.
“Ah, here it is!” cried the latter, disentangling a bunch of keys from the recesses of a pocket. “Got into the lining.”
In a trice the bag was unlocked and its contents extracted by the simple process of turning them out on to the ground.
“Here you are, Blachland,” handing him two. “Miss Bayfield, Miss Bayfield,” he read out, “that’s all for Lyn. Illustrated London News—George Bayfield—George Bayfield. Here’s another, that’s for you—no, it isn’t, it’s me. Looked like Blachland at first. That’s all. Here you are, September. Take that on to Miss Lyn,” replacing the latter’s correspondence in the bag.
“Ja, Baas.” And the Kaffir jogged off.
Blachland stood there, outwardly calm, but, in reality, stirred through and through. The blow had fallen. The writing on the enclosure which his friend had so nearly handed to him, how well he knew it; could it be, he thought, in a flash of sardonic irony—there had once been a time when it was the most welcome sight his glance could rest upon? The blow had fallen. Hermia had been as good as her word, but even then there were mitigating circumstances, for a ghastly idea had occurred to him that she might, in the plenitude of her malice, have written direct to Lyn, whereas the addresses on the girl’s correspondence were in different hands, and which in fact he had seen before. Indeed had it been otherwise he intended to warn Bayfield on no account to pass on the letter until that worthy had satisfied himself as to its contents.
“Just as I thought. I’ve got to clear, and rather sharp too. In fact, to-morrow,” running his eyes over his letters.
“Have you, old chap? What a beastly nuisance,” answered Bayfield, looking up. “We shall miss you no end.”