John Heron.
The blood rushed to Roger's forehead. He realized that this was a deliberate insult.
The last letter had begun "Dear Sands," and had been signed "Yours gratefully ever." Roger was even more furious than mystified. "Next time he wants me to pull him out of a death trap, he can whistle for his pains!"
At that instant Beverley tapped at the door, and half opened it to peep in.
This irritated Roger. He had told her from the first that she need not knock at his study door.
"How often have I begged you not to knock?" he broke out at her. "Come in if you want to."
It was the first time he had ever spoken crossly. Beverley started, and the look on her face, instead of overwhelming Roger with remorse, hardened him.
Beverley's colour had been bright, but she turned pale as Roger flung at her his scolding words. Seeing the letter in her husband's hand the blood streamed back to her cheeks. If she could possibly have known and recognized Heron's writing, it might have seemed that the sight of it had struck her with fear. But no such far-fetched thought occurred to her husband.
"I—I'm sorry!" she said hastily. "I heard your voice—I supposed someone was with you——"
Roger forgot that he had spoken aloud. In silence he let the girl cross the floor and sit down in the easy chair she called "hers." She dropped into it as if her knees had given way, and looked at Roger. When he did not speak, she could bear the suspense no longer.