Annoyed, Caruth faced him, the hand holding the letter dropping to his side. “Well, Wilkins?” he questioned coldly.
“I beg pardon, sir,” repeated the man. “But I think that letter belongs to me, sir. Will you kindly look inside and see if it doesn’t begin ‘My dear Jim’ and end ‘Yours, Bill,’ sir? If it does, it is certainly mine, sir. I think it’s from my brother Bill, sir.”
CHAPTER THREE
SLOWLY Caruth regained his balance. The valet’s deferential plea came like a tonic to his overstrung nerves. Nothing was more natural than that Wilkins should have had a letter addressed in his care; he wondered that the possibility of this had not occurred to him at once. And with the advent of the valet, the whole situation had become ridiculous; he felt as if he had been playing a part in some melodrama and had suddenly stepped back into the realm of common sense. With a laugh on his lips, he turned to Miss Fitzhugh.
His lips straightened and his smile froze. Never had he seen such disappointment on the face of a woman. Her eyes glared roundly and her breath whistled through her parted lips. Blindly she caught at the table, like one about to collapse. Her trembling fingers touched a wine-glass, and mechanically she lifted it to her lips.
As she drank, the color came back to her cheeks and her eyes brightened. Caruth, watching, noticed that she was listening to some one. An instant later he realized that it was Wilkins, and, with an effort, he wrenched his eyes away from hers and turned them on the valet.
The man’s attitude was deferential in the extreme. His eyes were discreetly dropped, and he seemed unaware of the confusion his appearance had caused. “I had a brother that was a sea-faring man, sir,” he was saying. “Sailed out of Lunnon in the steamship Orkney for St. Petersburg, hard on two years ago, sir. She was never heard from again. Lost at sea somewheres, sir. The letter may be from him, sir. I told him to write me in your care, sir.”
Miss Fitzhugh did not speak, and Caruth hesitated, but only for a moment. Slowly he opened the letter and glanced at the top and bottom of the scrawl; mechanically he refolded it and slipped it back into its envelope. “You’ve hit it, Wilkins,” he declared. “The letter does begin ‘Dear Jim’ and does end ‘Your brother, Bill.’ Your claim seems to be clear.” He handed the letter to the man.
As the latter took it, the woman came out of her trance. “Wilkins!” she called sharply.
“Yes, madam.” The valet turned toward her, subservient as ever.