"Yes," returned Linda listlessly; "I suppose he had been sure no one would hold him in any way responsible."
The servant here came in to spread the little table for dinner, while Miss Barry, her hands tightly locked together, gave her indignant thoughts free rein, and followed Bertram King to his room at the club.
Had she really been able to see him, she would have witnessed his finding upon his arrival a letter in Mrs. Porter's handwriting.
His white, stoical face did not change while he read it:—
Dear Bertram,—
I want to send you a few lines to the club, because I feel sure there will be a quieter atmosphere there than at the office these troublous days. There is never an hour in which my thoughts do not go to you and Linda, fellow sufferers and both so dear to me. I can scarcely wait for the day when your duties will let you leave Chicago and come here. Doubtless Linda will arrive soon, and here you will both find healing for your sorrow, and if it is right, find each other. She will have a double reason for nearness to you as the chief earthly link with her dear father, and here in this simplicity and quiet the real things of life are more easily discernible. Complications seem to have no place in these broad, harmonious spaces, and both you dear ones can forget the fevers of sorrowful excitement.
Let me hear from you.
Yours as ever,
Maud.