“Why, here’s one from Paris,” she exclaimed.
“From father?” asked her husband, still intent upon his bacon and eggs.
“No,” said she. “I will open it and read it to you.”
Womanlike she looked at the end of the letter first.
“Why, Clarence,” she exclaimed, “it’s from Jack De Vinne.”
“Go on,” said her husband, as he buttered a muffin, “let’s hear what he says,” and Jennie read:
“My Dear Clarence:
“I have been very remiss in my duty to you. I should have written to you long before this and conveyed to you some intelligence which you will find of the greatest importance. Let me give you my excuse first. I cannot tell you the whole story now, for I am not an adept at letter-writing, and usually confine my communications to a statement of bald facts. Well, the facts are these. By a curious coincidence I met my dear friend Victor Duquesne in Corsica. Bertha had gone there with the Countess Mont d’Oro, and I, as you know, followed her. Admiral Enright’s ship, upon which Victor was a lieutenant, came to Ajaccio shortly after I arrived, so we met. Your father followed Bertha to Corsica, intending to prevent my meeting with her. She was not poor, as your father had told me, but possesses a fortune in her own right. Your father was to be her guardian until the day of her marriage, when, by her father’s will, she was to be put in possession of her fortune. You see now why your father wished you to marry her and why he did not want her to marry anybody else.”
“We knew all that before, didn’t we, Clarence?” exclaimed Jennie.
“Yes,” said her husband, as he buttered a third muffin. “Go on, he’s got something more to tell. I know Jack; he writes just as he talks.”