"I don't know. It might be St. Peter, with winter coming on and Albania to be crossed. No, no, don't you bother about reporting. Just follow the crowd and you'll be all right. Good-by, Miss Potberry. Sorry you've had such a long journey for nothing. Sorry about everything."
He beckoned Sylvia close to him with his eyes.
"For Christ's sake get rid of her or I shall have another hemorrhage."
Sylvia asked Miss Potberry to go back to the hotel and get packed. When the secretary had gone, she knelt by Hazlewood.
"Michael Fane arrived yet?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"I had something to give him."
The wounded man's face became more definitely lined with pain in the new worry of Fane's non-appearance.
"I want you to give him a letter. It's under my pillow. If by chance he doesn't come, perhaps you'd be good enough to post it when you get an opportunity. Miss Pauline Grey, Wychford Rectory, Oxfordshire."
Sylvia found the letter, which was still unaddressed.