Loveland suddenly felt a wild longing to kill Sidney Cremer, the successful novelist-playwright, and to smash Sidney Cremer's beautiful new car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sidney Cremer's Chauffeur
No letter was forwarded to the Hill Farm from the theatre at Bonnerstown, for the very good reason that Miss Moon, having found one for Mr. P. Gordon, opened, read, and out of sheer spite, destroyed it with its several enclosures.
The envelope was addressed in Bill Willing's inappropriately beautiful handwriting, and there was a short note from him, saying that he had great pleasure in enclosing two letters just arrived from England; also that he sent his "undying love to Lillie de Lisle."
One of the English letters blazed to the actress's dazzled eyes with a gilded coronet, and began, "My own darling Val, how can you ever forgive me for not answering your poor, dear cablegram, but of course I thought it was from that horrible wretch Foxham. It seems now, he sold your ticket for the Baltic, and sailed for Australia. All sorts of reports came in about him directly after you must have sailed, and I learn now that even before you left, James Harborough suspected him, because of some forged cheque he'd heard of—I'm really too confused and upset to remember how or when or what. But in any case it was most remiss of James not to have instantly warned you against the man, even on the slightest suspicion."
This was only the beginning of the coroneted letter, which had no paragraphs and very few punctuations. Jealous still, Miss Moon was relieved to see that the signature was "Your adoring mother," but she was at a loss to understand allusions to duchesses and other persons of title. Indeed, it would have appeared to her like a "property" letter to be read on the stage by an aristocratic hero of melodrama, had it not been for the post office order for three hundred dollars, which it contained. It was a genuine order, as Miss Moon might have been inclined to prove for herself, if she had had any hope of obtaining the money, which she had not; therefore the next best thing was to throw the document into the fire, that Gordon might not benefit by it.
The other letter enclosed had no coronet, not even a crest; but the paper was very nice, smelled faintly of spring flowers, and had for an address a number in Park Lane, which Miss Moon had read of in English novels as a street mostly inhabited by elderly millionaire villains who persecuted poor, but beauteous heroines. The writing was pretty, and the letter was signed "Your affectionate cousin, Betty." At the end was a postscript in a different hand, which seemed somehow to suit the rather dashing signature—"Jim."
This second letter was even more difficult than the first for an uninitiated person to understand, and it irritated Miss Moon to a high pitch of nervousness.