There was nothing on the reverse side but the address and the postmark. They were quite sufficient for me, however. The postmark was Mellborough and the handwriting was the peculiar, cramped handwriting of Mr. Marx.
CHAPTER XXXII.
FORESTALLED.
For a full minute neither of us moved. Then de Cartienne rose slowly to his feet and walked to the door.
“Here, take this!” I said, holding out the envelope towards him. “The private memoranda upon it may be useful to you.”
He snatched it from my fingers and tore it into atoms. Then he walked quietly away, with an evil look upon his face.
At luncheon Cecil appeared, white as a ghost, and looking anxious and disturbed, as well he might. Dr. Randall was quite uneasy at his appearance, and acquiesced at once when I asked for permission to take him for a drive during the afternoon. de Cartienne sat silent throughout the meal, except for a few sympathising sentences to Cecil, and left the room at the first opportunity.
At three o’clock my dog cart was brought round and Cecil and I drove away. We scarcely spoke until we were in the streets of Drayton, and then, rousing myself, I bade him pluck his spirits up, and assured him vaguely that I would see him through it somehow. He thanked me, but seemed very despondent.
We went to the “Bull,” and inquired for Mr. Fothergill. He was in the coffee-room, we were told, and there we found him lunching.
“So good of you fellows to come and look me up!” he exclaimed, welcoming us cordially. “Waiter, a bottle of Pommery. Don’t shake your head now, Lord Silchester. It’ll do you good. I can see you’re a bit seedy this morning.”
Cecil smiled feebly.