Yours very sincerely,
Peregrine Carey Below.
P.S.—I think it best for both of us that we should not meet again, so I am leaving for London to-night.
Mrs. Carey Below stared and stared.
Presently she glanced round, folded the letter swiftly and thrust it into her bag.
Out of sight, out of mind. . . . Out of sight. . . .
With an effort she wrenched at her thoughts, speaking mechanically to give her brain a lead.
“So nothing,” she rasped, breathing heavily through her nose, “nothing is sacred to him. This—after seven years. . . .” She raised her voice. “Pickford!”
But Pickford was in a taxi, heading for the Gare du Nord.